


Da Capo

by Rungian



Category: The Simpsons
Genre: (haha I made a pun), Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Kinda, M/M, Romance, Slow Burn, dubcon?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-14
Updated: 2018-11-15
Packaged: 2019-03-31 12:35:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 30,786
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13975254
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rungian/pseuds/Rungian
Summary: When Smithers hits rock bottom, there's only one way to go: up. As choices have their consequences, Mr. Burns is swept along for the ride - whether or not he wants to be.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> 'You will find me waiting out in the dark  
> I'm your everlasting property  
> You're the one I'm living for  
> And feed all the time'  
> \- Ace of Base, 'Da Capo'

 

Waylon Smithers bit his lip nervously, clutching the morning's financial newspaper in one unfeeling hand and balancing a breakfast tray on the other as he glanced in to the office. Mr. Burns was sitting at his desk dozing off, as he always was at the pre-coffee start of a weekday. Often, Smithers would indulge himself, allowing a minute or so to watch Burns' head droop to his chest and dreaming that _he_ was the pillow of choice, but that was a luxury for good days. Today was definitely not a good day.

 

It was never pleasant to deliver bad news to Burns. There was no telling, at the very beginning of the morning, what sort of mood he would be in, or how well he would take it. Sometimes, he would dismiss the most dire of disasters with a flick of his hand, and others the slightest hiccup would result in a condescending fit of screaming and Smithers coming to what felt like the brink of losing his job.

 

This week... well, the sooner it could be condemned to the annals of history, the better. Burns had driven Smithers mercilessly, utterly dismissing his dedication except to snap at his imperfections. Smithers, stressed and unhappy, had in turn taken out his frustrations by being particularly harsh on plant employees, and he had heard rebellious muttering following him through the corridors as the week progressed.

 

He knew he should reign in his nitpicking, if only because it was foolish to hold the entire plant to the stringent standards he set for himself. _They_ didn't love their jobs or their employer in the same way he did, and they didn't feel the Wrath of Burns in the same way he did either. Burns was waspish and liable to lash out at the nearest thing when displeased; unfortunately, the nearest thing was almost always Smithers.

 

Heh... he didn't often think this, but TGIF.

 

With every cruel remark Burns hurled at him, Smithers felt the noose of unemployment threaten his neck – and that was nothing compared to the personal hurt he felt at hearing the man he would give anything to please disparage him as easily as if he were campaigning for those hated Socialists. Smithers cared for little in life as much as he cared for Burns. Fearing the consequences, he tried his best to keep this fact hidden from his employer, and had somehow been largely successful. Yes, the rarity of praise made it sound all the sweeter, but, when some of his deepest desires swirled around the man touching his cheek and whispering honeyed words in his ear, hearing Burns’ sharp tongue berate him was nothing short of torture.

 

By nature, Smithers was a romantic, passionate dreamer, but it was hard to maintain a fantasy based on hopeful idealism when the subject could be so unpredictably hostile.

 

Sometimes, Mr. Burns would enter a dark mood and linger there for days on end. Sometimes, as much as Smithers loved to spend every minute in Burns' company, it took all his self control to walk onwards into whatever humiliation he would be subject to. Sometimes, it felt as though Burns knew _everything_ he was hiding, and tailored his words into perfect barbs designed to pierce where it hurt most. So far, this week had felt like one of those 'sometimes', and this morning was not shaping up to be much better.

 

Swallowing to steel his nerve, Smithers entered the office, his expression fixed in a conciliatory smile.

 

“Good morning, sir. Here's your breakfast! I've done you gull's egg omelette and waffles.” He slid the tray beneath Burns' nose and unfolded the newspaper to the front page. Burns barely glanced at it.

 

“I wanted a baked portobello too. Where's the portobello, Smithers?” he asked irritably, picking up the fork and gingerly prodding one of the omelette slices as though testing it for explosives.

 

“Underneath the waffles, sir, so the juice will soften them up a little, just as you like it.”

 

“Excellent.” Burns started eating. “Mmph! You've outdone yourself this time, Smithers, this is wonderful!”

 

Smithers' smile became a little more genuine; compliments from Burns were uncommon, and not passed out lightly. If Burns was happy enough to appreciate his cooking, then perhaps he was in a good mood this morning...

 

“How are my stocks?” asked Burns through a mouthful of waffle. Smithers winced internally; it was the question he had been dreading.

 

“Well... not great, sir, there was a – a market wobble on the Nikkei and it's –“

 

Burns' eyes narrowed. “Oh, stop _blithering_. How much have I lost?”

 

“Um, I – well, it – at the last projection, sir, around twenty million was wiped from the va–“

 

Smithers ducked as a plateful of the town's most expensive omelette flew past his head, dripping hollandaise onto his jacket.

 

“ _What!?_ ” Disregarding the upended meal in front of him, Burns slammed his hands down on his desk, rising from his seat with shoulders hunched and spluttering indignantly. Though he was physically frail he still cut an imposing figure. Smithers drew away in fear.

 

“Don't hit me, sir!”

 

“Bah, you know well enough that I don't have the energy to take it out on you before elevenses!” However, one long finger hovered over the trapdoor button on the desk. Smithers noticed and swiftly stepped to the right.

 

“It's not a total loss, sir! There's a chance that the market will recover before this evening, and it looks like the FTSE Hundred is still –“

 

“I don't give a damn about your Footsie, Smithers! Next you'll be telling me that that upstart Roosevelt has won at the ballot and wiped billions off the value of child labour!”

 

“Um...”

 

“Ugh–tch–“ Incandescent with rage, it was all Burns could do for a moment to sputter incoherent noises as he composed himself. “Smithers! I've lost my appetite. Take this,” he indicated the half-finished breakfast tray, “and dispose of it, and then take yourself down to the hounds' kennel and let them savage you for a while.”

 

“But–”

 

“Do as I say!”

 

With the softest of sighs, his heart in his throat and his stomach somewhere down by his knees, Smithers picked up the tray.

 

“Yes, sir.”

 

oOo

 

The day had not improved.

 

By the time Smithers staggered up to his apartment door that evening, the moon was already high in the sky, half hidden behind a blanket of cloud. He was exhausted.

 

Quite often – most days, in fact – his work duties did not finish when the offices at the plant closed. Burns, feeble bordering on infirm, wanted assistance in almost all areas of his private life, and Smithers, desperate to spend as much time as possible with him, was all-too-willing to oblige.

 

Occasionally, Mr. Burns would decide he wanted to patronise one of Springfield's many upmarket eateries. Smithers enjoyed those nights, as Burns would book a table for two and, on a good day or when he was particularly pleased with Smithers' service, would even buy his meal for him. If the atmosphere was right, and with the help of a little champagne, Smithers could delude himself into pretending they were on a date. More than once, he had caught himself leaning across the table, lost in Burns' intense (if slightly confused) gaze, hoping to capture a kiss...

 

On the days like today when Burns did not wish to venture out, he had come to expect Smithers would prepare him a gourmet dinner. Smithers knew his cooking skills had improved exponentially through meeting Burns' demands, but it took so much energy to make a four-course meal that, by the time he got home, he barely had a chance to prepare anything worthwhile for himself and often ended up with a microwaveable canned soup or instant cup noodle. Besides, it was increasingly rare that Burns seemed to care for the dishes he poured his heart into making, and his enthusiasm to face the daily chore of feeding himself waned with each snide remark.

 

“What do you want,” Burns had said that evening upon being presented with a stuffed partridge, clearly still seething about his financial pitfall, “a medal? Stop fishing for compliments, you mindless factotum, and get out of my sight before I really lose my temper!”

 

And so ended another working week.

 

Preparing himself a drink, Smithers checked his wristwatch. Hmm, ten thirty. Actually fairly early for him to get home on a dinner night, particularly for a Friday; generally, Burns seemed almost as reluctant to let him go for the weekend as he was to leave.

 

On the one hand, he was tired, but he wasn't _sleepy_. He was filled with an annoyingly frenetic well of nervous energy, and he knew that, if he dragged himself into his bed now, he would lay awake for hours brooding and over-thinking.

 

Running one hand through his greying hair, Waylon started up the Grinder app on his phone. He needed a quick release, without any emotional investment. He needed, just for one night, to not be Waylon Smithers, the man so hopelessly in love with Mr. Burns. At least his inability to hold down a stable relationship had left him free to seek no-commitment gratification whenever he pleased.

 

When it came to positions, Smithers was fairly flexible – in mind, at least, if not in body. He'd contentedly fill whichever role – or hole – was asked of him, but a slew of failed relationships and long-suffered fantasies had left him with a small yet definite preference for bottoming. He'd found the versatility useful for hook-ups.

 

Unenthusiastically scanning the icons which popped up, Smithers selected a few likely-looking usernames and dropped quick greetings. He wasn't picky, not tonight. Names like _hungtop129_ , _thiccboiFUX_ , _hardp0und,_ and _SUCK_M4STER_ all stood out as probably not looking for anything serious. Within half a minute he was proven right; hardp0und had replied and his message cut straight to the point.

 

_hiya stats 188 6ft top u_

 

_Hi. 175, 5'9” versatile._

 

_lol u a twink u type like1_

 

 _No._ Then, as a follow-up _, I suppose closer to an otter. Early forties._

 

_older than ilike bt 175 u must b slim so nvm u ok 2 btotom wld like u ride my dick_

 

_I don't mind._

 

_urs or mine_

 

_Can you come to mine? I've been drinking so I can't drive._

 

_kk can get poppers or g if u want_

 

_G?_

 

_ghb its gd can get u some ull go for days makes u feel gd_

 

_No thank you. I'm not planning on a weekend bender. Just something quick, no strings._

 

_u mind if i take ??_

 

_I'd rather you didn't. Is that going to be a problem?_

 

_kk np ill just bring lube then cu @ urs in 30mins then send ur addy_

 

_Yes. I'll wait on the corner under the street lamp. See you later._

 

oOo

 

Slowly, the world came in to focus. Someone was moaning, and there was music playing in the background. As pain coursed through his entire body, Smithers realised the fretful moaning was coming from _him_. The music... the music was coming from his radio alarm. Slowly, as consciousness continued to seep into him and the room eased in to vaguely recognisable shapes, he realised he was sprawled semi-naked over the sofa in his apartment. Moving slightly, his foot came into contact with an empty bottle, which chinked softly as it rolled onto the floor.

 

Ah... this must be the morning after the night before.

 

“Urgh.” Levering himself awkwardly into a sitting position and trying to ignore the wave of sickness the movement caused, Waylon groped around for his glasses. The lenses were smeared with god-knows-what and, after wiping them absently on his unbuttoned shirt, he slid them back on and grimaced. Being able to see the mess in his living room hadn't helped at all. It didn't ease the pounding behind his eyes, and his mouth still tasted of semen and stale cigarettes.

 

What the hell had happened? Smithers could only make out faint snippets of memory after he had met his hook-up on the street corner and returned to the apartment with him. Most of the hazy flashes involved him vomiting, and dizziness, and pain, and a feeling of – a feeling of –

 

Waylon scrunched up his eyes, trying to remember. It only worsened the throbbing in his poor head.

 

He looked around, squinting blearily through the musty daylight streaming through the open slit of his curtains. He was alone. His date – if he could even be referred to as a date – was long gone.

 

Slowly, Smithers stood up with the vague intention of making himself some coffee and finding his trousers, but his legs wobbled beneath him as he took several unsteady steps forward. More of the room swam into focus. There was a blanket draped halfway off the sofa close to where his feet had been. It was stained with vomit and some blood spotting. Smithers felt a swell of uncertainty grip him. Vomit was expected, especially after a heavy night, but the specks of blood were more than a little concerning. Was that _his?_

 

With another quiet moan, Waylon sank to his knees and held his head in his hands. God, he hadn't had a hangover like this before. Every bone in his body ached. He hadn't been _that_ drunk, had he? Yes, he'd had a knock of scotch or three to help facilitate a one night stand, but that was nothing he hadn't done before.

 

“ _G'morning to you listeners just sleeping off last night_ ,” the radio announcer was saying in a cheerful voice that, in that moment, Smithers despised. “ _For the rest of us, it's a glorious sunny Sunday lunchtime_.”

 

“Nn–what?” A sudden panic grasped Smithers through the nausea. He'd met hardp0und on _Friday_...

 

Where the hell had Saturday gone!?

 

A lump rose in his throat, which had already felt as though it was on fire. Smithers tried to swallow it down, but choked as white-hot pain seared through him. He fell to all fours as the bile rose. Sobbing for breath, Smithers heaved until long after there was nothing left to come up. Panting hoarsely, with tears streaming down his bloodless cheeks, he wiped his mouth on his sleeve and stared blankly at the soiled carpet.

 

 _Calm down_ , he berated himself. _Calm down. The DJ just made a mistake. It's still Saturday._

 

Fumbling some underwear on, Smithers staggered back to the sofa and tried to find his phone. There was another brief moment of panic as the thought that hardp0und may have stolen it flitted into his mind, but this was quickly dispelled as he saw the corner poking out from the pocket of his discarded trousers. Blinking his vision into focus, he checked the time with trembling hands.

 

_12:37pm. Sunday._

 

Well. _Shit_.

 

Clamping his hand over his mouth to try and stop himself retching again, Smithers stared at his phone's screen until it flicked off as though trying to change the display by sheer force of will. No, no, _no_...! He'd lost an entire day – how could he have lost an _entire day?_

 

Buried under a mudslide of anxiety, it was all he could do to crouch on the floor with his head in his hands, groaning. This made no sense. Nothing made sense. Oh God, his head was _whirling_ . Where was the proof Saturday existed? Why was he missing over thirty hours of his life? How was that even _possible?_

 

It took several minutes for him to push himself to his feet and stagger haphazardly towards the bathroom, staring straight ahead and barely seeing anything at all.

 

oOo

 

An hour later, Smithers was sitting at his dining table nursing a lukewarm cup of coffee. After a hot shower to rinse away the smell of guilt and a long gargle of mouthwash to get rid of the last dregs of whatever he had put in his mouth, he was beginning to feel a little less like a soiled dishcloth. After pulling on his boxers and shirtsleeves and running a comb through his tousled hair, he'd washed his face again in the hopes the cold water would stop his eyes from stinging so much, but it had only been a partial success. Although he desperately needed to, he hadn't yet shaved; in his current state he didn't trust himself with anything sharp. With the way he felt, he was liable to slit his own throat even with a safety razor, and he already had too many bloodstains to clean up without taking that risk.

 

It had been another unpleasant surprise to find the scratch marks on his chest and the faint fingerprint bruising around his neck and collarbone - he hadn't felt them and wouldn't have noticed them at all if he hadn't caught sight of himself in the mirror. It seemed at least _someone_ had had a good time. The thought caused Smithers some measure of grim humour.

 

Standing in the shower, with the hot water running over his body, some of the myriad of aches had dissolved. He finally felt human again, though his head still hurt, and he couldn't yet face the thought of eating anything.

 

Somehow, he'd managed to find the coordination to check his cupboards and make sure that none of his belongings were missing, but it seemed that hardp0und had only been interested in sex. It was a little blessing.

 

Waylon sighed miserably and sipped his coffee. No matter what mental gymnastics he did to try and deny it, there was only one possible conclusion: he'd been drugged. Hardp0und had drugged him and done... whatever he had done, and had left.

 

The _'whatever he had done'_ was more than a little bothersome, if only because he couldn't remember it at all, but Smithers was angrier about the drugging. He'd made a point of refusing narcotics, and would have easily called the whole thing off if hardp0und had insisted. The concept of chemsex was not alien to Smithers and he had no problems with other people doing whatever made them happy in the privacy of their own bedrooms, but it was not something he had any interest in himself, nor would ever care to partake in. At least he had a vague idea of the night's events from the pattern of bruises on his thighs, for what cold comfort that was.

 

With all the enthusiasm of a man heading to his own execution, Waylon dragged his gaze around his apartment and cringed, gripping his mug tighter. It would take _hours_ to clean up the mess, and that was without the persistent aches in muscles he had forgotten existed. At least most of it seemed to be various belongings which had been knocked out of place. One of his sofa-side reading lamps had shattered and the shade was torn, but it had been cheap and was easily replaced.

 

More irritating, and certainly more upsetting, was the staggering number of stains. While no stranger to bodily fluids, Smithers thankfully was not often confronted with such an obscene amount. Most of the stains were vomit, some were probably semen, and a couple – the most worrying, in fact – were definitely blood. With a soft groan, Smithers massaged his forehead briefly. Vomit and semen were one thing, and he was far from squeamish, but he much preferred blood to remain _inside_ the body.

 

The vomit was almost certainly his; he doubted that hardp0und had become blackout intoxicated, and the few memories he could find of the evening almost all seemed to involve some sort of re-acquaintance with his dinner. The semen – who cared? That was the _least_ concerning aspect of all this.

 

The blood flecks... well, there wasn't much he could do about that, past launder the stains out and try not to think too much about it. If it _was_ his blood, as he suspected, then he had bled, and more fool him for his lack of caution. He would just have to be careful for the next few days, and keep an eye on things. Smithers was reluctant to seek medical help; there were too many embarrassing questions that could be asked and he had no particular desire to try and explain himself. He _certainly_ wasn't going to speak to the police. Their reputation amongst Springfield's gay community was better than it could be, but still not as good as it should be, and Smithers had no desire to inflict hours of Chief Wiggum's insensitive questioning upon himself.

 

Besides, what was there to report? Hell, he'd _consented_ to the sex (probably), though it hadn't played out quite how he'd intended. All he could report as a crime was a drugging he wasn't even certain had happened, and he'd have a hell of a time proving _that_ when Springfield's 'finest' almost certainly couldn't administer a toxicology test to save their jobs. Running one hand through his hair distractedly, Waylon sipped at his coffee again. It had gone cold.

 

Ugh. All he could hope for was that he'd at least had the best damn orgasm of his life. Hardp0und owed him _that_ much, at least.

 

For the while, though, now that his headache was finally starting to recede, it was probably time to think about making a start of cleaning up. He had his normal weekend chores to remember as well – now that he was a day down, it was only a matter of hours before he needed to get ready for work in the morning, and he was still feeling sluggish and drowsy. Perhaps if he started a laundry cycle _now_...

 

There was a buzzing vibration from the table. With a heavy hand, Smithers grabbed his phone and checked it, thinking it might be Mr. Burns requiring his attention and, for once, desperately hoping it was not. His throat constricted unpleasantly as he saw the notification.

 

It was a short message from hardp0und: _thx cutie cu soon_

 

As Smithers stared at it, the icon flashed briefly to indicate a new message was being typed, and his phone vibrated again as it was received. Hardp0und had sent a photograph, and the sight of it caused the bottom to drop out of Smithers' stomach altogether.

 

It was a shaky picture of his own face, clearly taken on a phone camera. Waylon grimaced, sickened. It wasn't the penis in his mouth which bothered him most, nor the hand tangled in his hair, nor even the fact that he had no memory at all of this photo being taken. It was his pale, lolling, bloodless face and unfocused, half-closed eyes with glasses askew. He looked dead.

 

Smithers shuddered. How could _anyone_ get off having sex with someone who looked – and acted – like a corpse? For all his constant questioning of his own sexual tastes, at least Mr. Burns was _alive_.

 

His fingers danced across the phone's screen as he typed.

 

_I told you no chems. What the hell did you do to me??_

 

For several dragging minutes, Smithers watched the 'typing' icon flickering as hardp0und composed his reply. Then, without warning, the chat disappeared entirely.

 

Heh. Looked like he'd been blocked.

 

Sliding the phone across the table in disgust, Smithers massaged his temples with one hand. His other reached into the pocket of the jacket hanging on his chair, guiltily gripping the familiar contours of the cigarette box. Waylon had quit smoking fourteen times, and picked the habit up fifteen. Somehow, no matter how hard he tried or how many patches he used or how many months he went without the slightest craving, in times of stress his hands always reached for a cigarette. Normally, of course, 'times of stress' meant 'going against Mr. Burns' wishes,' but there was nothing normal about this weekend.

 

With clumsy, shaking hands, he drew one of the cigarettes into his mouth and patted down his pocket for a lighter, but, with his peripheral awareness still at worst-hangover-ever levels of impairment, he caught his elbow on the edge of the table. The carton, with its lid still open, was jolted from his loose grip, and a near-full box of smokes scattered onto the floor.

 

Glaring at the spilled cigarettes bad-temperedly, Smithers clenched the filter between his teeth until the pressure caused his head to hurt. For a moment, he hovered at the brink of slamming his fist down into the table out of sheer rage, but the fury subsided as quickly as it had come and, burned-out, he collapsed forward with his head in his hands, letting out a soft whimper of frustration.

 

He should have expected everything to go like this. It was a fitting end to a terrible week and, like Mr. Burns always implied, he only had himself to blame.

 

Raising his head from his hands at last, Waylon stared at his mug of cold coffee. His head felt the thought before it formed and screamed at him to stop, the ache pulsing through his temples, but he grit his teeth stubbornly.

 

To hell with this. He needed something stronger to drink.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Will I ever be happy enough with this to stop editing it (´•̥̥̥ω•̥̥̥`)  
> (Answer: no)


	2. Chapter 2

Monday morning dawned far earlier than it had any right to. For the first time in an uncountable number of months, Waylon snoozed his alarm twice before managing to roll out of bed into the shower. Somehow, despite a diet of aspirin, cigarettes and alka-seltzer, and almost the entire weekend spent either asleep or unconscious, his temples stubbornly held the throbbing remnants of an ache.

 

In hindsight, drinking alcohol the day before had probably been unwise without knowing what drugs, if any, were still working their way out of his body. After only a half-pint of weak lager, he had been stumbling and dizzy, and had had to lie down for half an hour before he felt well enough to to walk without fainting. At least the intense drunkenness had been short-lived, and by the end of Sunday Waylon had even managed a slice and a half of very undercooked toast (or slightly crunchy bread) for his evening meal. He'd nibbled it down slowly before taking a long, hot bath with plenty of bubbles despite having already showered, and that had been the best damn decision of his life. He'd taken himself to bed at barely gone eight, feeling almost alive again but thoroughly exhausted.

 

After recovering from downing his half bottle of Duff Lite and running a cursory couple of internet searches to try and work out what he might have been slipped, Smithers had made a valiant attempt at tidying up his apartment, and it was back to its normal post-hookup level of disarray. He'd scrubbed most of the stains out of his sofa, at least, but the bloodied blanket had been a lost cause and had gone straight in the trash. The chore of restoring some semblance of order to his home had seemed almost insurmountable while he was still shivering on the couch after regaining consciousness, but now, at this God-awful time on a Monday morning, it was a jolly daisy-chain compared to the idea of going to work.

 

Staring into the mirror, Smithers adjusted his shirt collar uncomfortably. Though they were still mostly faint and indistinct, one or two patches of the mottled bruising on his neck and down onto his collarbone were now clearly recognisable as fingerprints. His first thought had been to wear one of his turtle-neck sweaters to hide the worst of it, but the change in his normal clothing would make it even more obvious. He was in no mood for unwanted questions, and even in the best case scenario a bruise on his neck would be mistaken for a hickey and lead to sniggers in the corridors – even more so if he had made such an obvious attempt to hide it.

 

To be fair, his collar covered most of the mark. He had considered disguising what little was visible with leftover greasepaint from his musical days... but it might rub off onto his white shirt, and that was _bound_ to draw comment. Perhaps the best thing to do was to tie his bow-tie as usual and hope Burns did not look too closely. It was hardly as though he had a ready excuse if Burns queried why he had injuries from being throttled; somehow, Smithers didn't think _'I fell down the stairs'_   would cover it.

 

Slowly, he traced a finger over one small patch of ugly purple, wincing slightly. Hardp0und must have used a fair amount of force to leave distinct bruises... _why_ couldn't he even remember being _strangled?_

 

And the thought of work... oh, Lord. For once in his life, Smithers would have done anything for the weekend to have an extra day. He was so tired, the thought of concentrating for a full day – no, a full week at the office was almost impossible. And with the demands that Mr. Burns had–

 

Mr. Burns–

 

Smithers swallowed hard and splashed cold water on his face, rubbing his eyes with one hand before reaching for the toothpaste. He didn't know how he could possibly look Mr. Burns in the eye after this weekend. How many times had Burns told him? Trusting others made you vulnerable; relationships left you weak. And that was without the nagging, hateful voice inside him which taunted _if it had been Mr. Burns and not some stranger off the internet you wouldn't have minded_.

 

He thrust his toothbrush into his mouth with rather more force than he intended, but there was no way to unthink it. _If it had been Mr. Burns, you would have enjoyed it_. There was a grain of truth in there that made it all the more hard to swallow. Smithers was disgusted with himself.

 

… Good grief, if he survived a full day in the office without either collapsing or grabbing Burns by the face and thoroughly ravishing him, it would be a blessed miracle.

 

oOo

 

There was something interminably soothing about Mr. Burns' presence. Just walking into his office, as he did every other weekday morning, Smithers felt almost peaceful despite the pain in his legs. Burns was already sitting at his desk, eyebrows knotted in a sleepy pre-coffee frown as he dozed with his cheek resting on one hand. It was so... so normal, so ordinary, so _familiar._ At that moment, the sense of relief was almost as overwhelming as the tension had been. Smithers could have hugged him.

 

“Mmph.” Burns jolted awake in somewhat poor grace, watching his assistant grumpily. “Smithers, do you know what time it is?”

 

Smithers glanced at his wristwatch. “A quarter to eight, sir.”

 

“You're fully fifteen minutes late with breakfast and the morning paper,” Burns looked Smithers up and down, “and yet you're not even carrying breakfast _or_ a morning paper.”

 

“Sorry, sir. I'll go and –”

 

“No no, don't bother. With the speed you're apparently travelling this morning, by the time you bring breakfast I'll be ready for luncheon. What's wrong with you today, Smithers?”

 

“Nothing,” said Smithers firmly.

 

“Is this about Friday?” Burns waved a slender hand flippantly. “No need to worry about that old tosh. Two million in shares is but a drop in the ocean of Burns finance, after all.”

 

“Twenty million, sir.”

 

“Twe – a _large_ drop,” Burns said, his eyebrows furrowing impatiently and the slightest tinge of irritation colouring his cheeks.. “Besides, the fault isn't _entirely_ yours, so I'm going to let you make it up to me by building the loss back up out of your monthly salary.”

 

“Oh.” Smithers' hands twisted together behind his back. “That's very, uh –”

 

“Magnanimous?”

 

“Well, no, not _exactly_. It's very, um, thoughtful of you. But sir, mightn't it be more sensible to wait a week or two and see if the market stabilises?” Burns stared at him. “It _has_ been quite volatile recently, and the last few, uh, hiccups have all resolved themselves, more or less. Remember, it was only two months or so ago that you were planning to recoup your losses on the Dow by locking some of the staff in the reactor and selling the extra body parts they grew? It was only a few days before your shares appreciated again.”

 

Burns smiled gleefully and tented his fingers. “Ah, yes. That was one of my more inspired ventures. I'm surprised I let a bleeding heart liberal like you talk me out of it.”

 

“We _would_ have had to keep them on the payroll, sir, and the union would be able to demand all sorts of compensations for things like anti-social hours and, um, corporate murder.”

 

“Mmph, those vermin lawyers and their box-tickery.”

 

It was... it was a normal office discussion. Well, as normal as discussions ever got in Mr. Burns' office. It was so mundane, but the ordinariness was an indescribable relief. Nothing had changed. Waylon never thought he would find routine so sweet.

 

As Smithers buried himself in the usual morning paperwork with as much vigour as he could muster, he felt Burns' gaze lingering upon him. He was finding it hard this morning to set his mind to a task, and concentrating under such intense scrutiny was harder still. On any other day, Waylon would have _craved_ this level of attention from his employer, but he had been hoping, just for today, to slip under the radar. The hairs on the back of his neck prickled as Burns tented his fingers and watched him with an expression that could almost be described as pleasant but which Waylon would readily have described as godly.

 

“Well, Smithers? I'm sure I shall be fascinated utterly witless by the answer, but what middle-class drudgery did you indulge yourself in over the weekend?”

 

Smithers hesitated, staring unseeingly at the clipboard in his hand. He hadn't expected Burns to ask about his weekend. Generally, Burns was quite content to ignore the fact that Smithers' life did indeed extend outside the plant (though, as Smithers would be the first to admit to himself, it wasn't much of his life that extended so far). Smithers could probably count the occasions that Burns had questioned him unprompted about his leisure time on the fingers of one hand. “I, uh... I met up with an old friend. Sorry, sir,” he added, not at all liking the calculating look Burns was giving him, “it was a bit of a heavy night.”

 

To Smithers' surprise, Burns started chuckling. To Smithers' even greater surprise, a bony elbow dug lightly into his ribs. “Oh, don't be so coy, Smithers! Who is the lucky lass?”

 

“Wh–what?”

 

“I wasn't born yesterday; I know that look of shame, you sly dog! You've been, aha, _knowing_ someone you shouldn't have!”

 

Smithers went bright red. It was all he could do for a moment to mouth like a gaping fish as no words came. For someone who was so often two sandwiches short of a picnic, Mr. Burns could show these wonderful flashes of shrewd perception; it was at these moments that it became truly clear how the man had made himself a billionaire.

 

“Besides,” Burns added, with a wink and a roguish smirk that was one of the most attractive things Smithers had ever seen, “you've tied your bow-tie crooked.”

 

Smithers' hands flew to his throat.

 

Of course, his bow-tie was tied as perfectly as it always was. He cursed himself for falling for it; how long had he spent looking in the mirror that morning, carefully making sure his clothing was immaculate?

 

Burns was staring at him with a knowing grin. Smithers tried to match it, giving a half-hearted little laugh. It was almost worth being tricked by the ruse and becoming stuck in this awkward conversation, just for that damn _look_ on his face. _God_ , that confidence was _beautiful_.

 

“Haha... very clever, sir.”

 

“I've certainly caught you out, you young masher! Don't think you can pull one over on Monty Burns!”

 

“As if I'd even try, sir.”

 

“Then who was she?”

 

Smithers exhaled softly. Lying came fairly easily to him nowadays after all the practise he had trying to deny his own feelings. “There wasn't a she, sir. It was just me and my, uh, friend. Who is a man.”

 

“No she?”

 

“No, sir.”

 

“You weren't biblically knowing anyone last night?”

 

He swallowed. “Absolutely not, sir.” Well, it was _technically_ true; it hadn't been _last night_ , after all.

 

Burns regarded Smithers with a suspicious stare. “Are you _sure_ about that, Smithers? You're behaving very oddly today, _and_ you were late in this morning, by more than ten minutes!”

 

“Sir, no! I just... I drank a lot more than I meant to, and I – I'm hungover.”

 

“Hm, is that all? I see.” Burns sighed, tenting his fingers and sitting back in his chair. “I was hoping you'd pushed the boundaries a little, because you can be such a square, but I suppose it's quite reassuring to have the same old boring Smithers.”

 

“Thank you, sir.”

 

And, even though he knew it was pathetic, as he began to sort the paperwork on Burns' desk, Waylon could not keep the small smile from his lips at Burns calling his presence _reassuring_. Who cared if it had been nothing more than a flippant remark? Burns had said it and hopefully meant it, and the feeling was, after all, more than mutual.

 

oOo

 

Although the running of a nuclear power plant could be very involved, there were frequently long periods of time when there was very little happening at all. Quite often, during these periods of sleepy downtime, Smithers found his mind wandering to a pleasant fantasy. It was a habit that he knew he shouldn't have fallen in to, and it was proving incredibly hard to break. Sometimes, snippets of desire snuck their way into the forefront of his mind even when he was busy. Occasionally, Smithers' fantasies could get quite racy. He'd made a concerted effort to stop _those_ ones, because the only way that could end up was hugely awkward and not at all something he wanted to try and explain to Mr. Burns.

 

Standing in his normal place behind Burns' desk, his hands firmly in his pockets, Waylon's eyes followed the progress of Burns' pen across the page he was writing on. His gaze was drawn to those long fingers. Though age had withered Burns' hands, his fingers still retained some of the grace of his younger days, Smithers knew; he had felt them teasing his hair and dreamed of them teasing other parts of his body. If he closed his eyes, he could see Burns in front of him, reaching out to stroke his face and guide him slowly in –

 

The realisation that Burns was talking to him jolted Smithers out of his daydream, though the feeling of phantom fingers brushing against his cheek lingered with a hungry, desperate longing. He could hear his heartbeat thudding in his ears.

 

“– I've been thinking about it and I would like you to assume the position.”

 

“Um...” Waylon panicked. “Which position would you like me in, sir? Over the desk?”

 

“What? The vacant position on the board of representatives for the next meeting, of course! We were _just_ talking about it, Smithers, where's your head?”

 

“I – sorry, sir,” mumbled Smithers, glancing down at his shoes before fixing his embarrassed gaze at a mark on Burns' mahogany desk and trying not to think that he'd just offered to be bent over it. Thankfully, it looked as though Burns hadn't noticed the slip of innuendo, or perhaps he just hadn't understood it. Was that wishful thinking? “I'm still – like I said, it was a heavy night...”

 

“Hmm, yes… why don't you step out for lunch?” Mr. Burns was still regarding Smithers with a very odd expression, talking to him in the same manner a doctor might speak to the terminally ill. “The fresh air may do you good. Perhaps you should go to the park in town, though? The air around here might not be, aha, fresh enough for your needs.”

 

“A-are you sure, sir? Are you going to be all right without me?”

 

“For God's sake, Smithers, stop mollycoddling me! I'm a grown man; I'm perfectly capable of rafting my own chicks _without_ your help!”

 

Smithers hesitated. He could point out the number of times that Burns had failed at completing even the most simple of everyday tasks – shopping for groceries came instantly to mind – but something told him that Burns would not appreciate the reminder of being institutionalised by supermarket clerks.

 

“Besides,” added Burns, voice cold, “with your performance so far today, I'm not convinced that I would trust you to be able to manage something as complicated as _lunch._ ”

 

Waylon’s cheeks burned in shamefaced frustration and he looked away, stung by the barb. It hurt all the more for its accuracy; it was only mid-morning, but he had been nothing short of useless today and he was well aware of it.

 

“If you're sure, sir” his voice was barely more than a mutter, “then I'll do as you say.”

 

oOo

 

Despite the chill in the air, the weather was pleasant. Sitting on a bench in Casual Encounter Park and watching the ducks on the lake, Smithers slid a cigarette from the box and lit it absently.

 

Clear your head, Burns had told him. That was easier said than done; Smithers had spent the past day trying to do just that, to clear his head of the fog that blurred his memory. Some short snippets had come to him during the course of the morning, but it was almost all more of the same. The only thing he could remember that didn't involve him being monstrously ill was the tiniest flash of a gruff, frustrated voice: “ _Fuck's sake, Eyebrows, can't you–"_ The memory ended there, incomplete, but Waylon had a feeling that the words _just_ _take it like a bitch_ had also been involved somewhere. Hell, he couldn't even remember if _he_ had said that, or if it had been his nameless partner. It felt like a dream, or a dream of a dream.

 

Resting his chin on his hand, he sighed heavily, watching one of the mallards as it preened. He wanted to go back to the power plant and busy himself in _something_ , but Burns had ordered him to take a full hour for lunch instead of the usual ten minutes he was accustomed to. This morning, when he had still been dressing himself, he had thought that getting through a working day would be hard, but now it seemed like getting through a paid break might be even harder. Still, the sun felt good on his face, even if the wind was starting to pick up. If he had been indoors, in private, he may even have allowed himself a short nap, but… no, not here. Waylon’s self-esteem fluctuated like a stormy sea, but he hadn't yet lost enough of his dignity to sleep on a Springfield park bench in his work clothes in the middle of the day.

 

Although Burns seemed to think he was out of sorts in the office, Smithers felt far less comfortable out here in public. The park wasn't that busy, not at this time on a weekday – it was mostly young mothers and their tiny offspring, or the elderly who were coming to whittle away another four hours of daylight – but every now and then someone passed, and every time Smithers shrank a little deeper into his coat.

 

No matter how hard he tried, he couldn't quite remember what hardp0und looked like past a vague impression of a man taller and far broader than himself. Had he been white? Hispanic? He couldn't even check grinder again to see if he had pictures up, not now he was blocked. Oh, his profile had said he was based over in Shelbyville (which, Smithers thought to himself with a brief flash of smug self-satisfaction, probably made him a Shelby-villain), but it wasn't exactly a long ride across to Springfield. The likelihood of him being in this park at this time of day was so slim, yet Smithers couldn't help the nagging doubt. What if he _was_ here? What if it was that man over there, walking past the gnarled old willow?

 

“What if you're just being a paranoid idiot, Waylon?” he muttered irritably to himself under his breath before taking another drag of his cigarette and stubbing the end out on the bench.

 

Sometimes, he would see something or hear something or smell something, and a tiny moment of vision would come back to him, brief but tantalising… but the memory was gone as quickly as it came. It felt as though everything was just out of reach on the other side of a barrier of thick fog, frustratingly close but nonetheless gone forever. Smithers' hands found their way to his pockets as he huddled down. Did it matter? Should it matter? Perhaps not knowing details was for the best; it wasn't as though a full recall would change the past. Yes, it would be nice to remember what had hopefully been at least _partially_ enjoyable sex, but there had been hook-ups before and doubtless there would be hook-ups again. In the end, hardp0und joined the line of utterly unmemorable faces Waylon had turned to when he needed to forget his emotions for the night. The only difference this time was that hardp0und had taken far more than he had given.

 

…. This was no good. He couldn't relax sitting out here, not when he half expected a shadowy figure to leap out of the bushes and wrap iron-strong hands around his neck. With a sigh, Waylon rose to his feet and started his steady way back to his car. Maybe if he just took a ride around town he'd feel better. Burns had told him to stay out and get some fresh air – well, gasoline exhaust fumes were about as fresh as anything else Springfield had to offer.

 

Honestly, as the hours ticked by, Smithers was becoming increasingly annoyed with his own inability to perform the simplest tasks to any level of competency. No matter how hard he tried, he could not stop his mind wandering. He couldn't concentrate, and when he couldn't concentrate he couldn't function properly, not to the level he knew Burns expected from him. He needed to regroup, to pull himself together; hopefully, by the time he returned to the office after his extended lunch break, he would be able to better prevent his mind from wandering. After all, Burns' dissatisfaction was far worse than anything hardp0und could have done to him.

 

Twitching his coat collar up around his neck and pushing his glasses back up his nose, Waylon got into the car and started to drive.

 

oOo

 

Alone in his office and frustrated by multiple failed attempts to work the newfangled coffee machine without Smithers’ assistance (not that he would ever _admit_ that to Smithers, of course) Mr. Burns sat back in his chair and surveyed the empty room thoughtfully. All odd behaviour aside, Smithers was certainly coy today. That said, he was never usually forthcoming with details of his personal life – he was fairly withdrawn and quite a private man by nature, it seemed – but he would usually offer up honest answers when Burns deigned to ask.

 

As a rule, Burns did not have much interest in his employees past whether or not they could tell their arse from their elbow without the use of a map. Smithers was the exception that proved the rule; Burns made an effort to show occasional interest in his assistant, out of deference to their history if nothing else.

 

Rising to his feet, Burns strode to the window and surveyed the looming cooling towers and the plant below. It would be easy to tell himself he was a busy man, with no time for meaningless drivel, and it would be just as easy to get rid of Smithers or assign him some thankless menial task in the bowels of the facility where he would be out of sight and out of mind, but Mr. Burns went where his fancy led and he was, despite himself, curious at what had riled up his normally unflappable assistant into such a state.

 

No matter what excuse Smithers cooked up about being drunk or hungover, Burns was almost certain his initial guess about Smithers taking someone to his bed had been right on the mark. Smithers was a man not given to loss of control and, certain situations aside, it took a lot to shake his resolve - certainly more than a hangover. Burns knew Smithers well enough to know that the man had been hungover at work a number of times before, but Smithers was far too professional to ever mention it, and he never let himself dare come in late or ask for sick leave. His behaviour today was sufficiently out-of-character for Burns to be sure a hangover, even a bad one, could not be the only cause.

 

Was it the mention of sex that had Smithers so out of sorts? Burns frowned thoughtfully. He was vaguely aware that most of the lower echelons of society shied away from talking about their sex lives in public. He had never been so reserved in front of Smithers and had discussed several of his fancies with him, but he couldn't ever remember Smithers talking about his own sexual escapades. He had mentioned a wife once or twice, but that had been a long time ago and as far as Burns was aware, Smithers currently lived alone. He never talked about having a family or anyone waiting for him at the end of the day. Maybe she had died? Unlikely – Smithers had never asked for time off to attend a funeral, and Burns was sure he remembered some off-hand comment about a divorce from a conversation long past. Like a perfect little drone, Smithers' very world seemed to revolve around Burns, and Burns was more than willing to exploit that for as long as Smithers continued to offer no resistance.

 

Burns thought back, trying to remember if Smithers had ever overtly brought up the more physical aspects of the fairer sex. It was... difficult. Smithers was still fairly young, at least compared to Burns, and he was not unattractive (unless Burns was even more out of touch with the common man than he thought). For such an eligible bachelor, Smithers rarely mentioned any sort of interest in women.

 

Oh! There was one time, wasn't there? What was it, what was it... Burns cursed his memory.

 

It had been... yes, it had been during his brief, ill-fated courtship of the Lady Bouvier, hadn't it? He suddenly had a vivid recollection of Smithers turning away from him and asking bluntly, in a voice which dripped with spite, ' _you had sex with that old woman?'_ Burns had been lost on cloud nine at the time and had been far too preoccupied with his own ecstasy to notice the insubordination, but come to think of it – Smithers had been mysteriously off during the whole debacle. It was his duty to be happy for Burns, but he had been miserable almost to the extent of being combative.

 

Burns could have slapped himself for not seeing it sooner. It was so obvious with hindsight – Smithers was _jealous_.

 

Everything started slotting neatly into place. Smithers had been _jealous_ of him. Did that mean he was interested in Mrs. Bouvier? Of course, that would certainly make sense with Smithers trying to hide who his weekend bedmate had been so desperately yet so poorly, or that he had had a weekend bedmate at all... Burns shook his head in no small amount of disbelief. Smithers? His mindless yes-man of an assistant? With _Mrs. Bouvier?_ No wonder he was being so secretive; of all the ways to ignite Burns' rage, an affair with a Bouvier was one of the most inflammable.

 

The harridan had left Burns at the altar in front of what felt like half the town. Now that so much time had passed, he was more humiliated than hurt, but the grudge simmered on. He had amused himself for several years by making life hell for her offspring in any number of small ways wherever his influence allowed him to do so undetected, and he still kept up pretences by sending the occasional letter threatening legal action, but the desire for true vengeance had flickered out some while ago.

 

While half of Burns could barely believe the conclusion he had reached, the other half of him was stubbornly convinced he had it right. If not for the fact that it was _Smithers_ , he would have terminated the man's employment right there. Loyal, devoted Smithers – he couldn't betray Mr. Burns by shacking up with the woman who had run out on him in front of a full congregation... could he?

 

Quietly, Burns resolved to himself to put his theory to the test. If he was wrong, he lost nothing. He would be able to amuse himself further by trying to unearth Smithers' secret – he told himself there was nothing that Smithers could keep from him for that long under direct questioning. If he was _right_... well, he would be in the market for a new executive, though it would be a blow both personally and to the company to lose Smithers' competence and long experience.

 

For one of the first times in his life, though he would never admit it for fear of acknowledging the ridiculous sentimentality it hinted at, Burns hoped very much that he was wrong.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock Burns, Esq.  
> Solving mysteries and drinking milk since 1880 (and he's all out of milk).


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Help I have no idea what I'm doing

 

Driving had been a good idea. He felt so much more at ease on the road than he had sitting on a bench in a park where it felt like every bush and every tree was inching closer and closer, ready to suffocate him.

  


Despite the early Spring chill, after about ten minutes, Waylon had rolled his car roof down. It was worth having to wrap his coat a little tighter; the wind through his hair felt _so good._ It was... cleansing, somehow, blowing away both the clouded memories and the doubts he had been having. None of it _mattered_ , not really, not when he had had one-night-stands in the past that time had eroded any recollection of. Besides, as the day passed, even those brief flashes he _could_ remember had begun slipping away, like the last shreds of a fading dream.

  


The frontages at the side of the road passed in a blur, interspersed with trees which were already growing their spring buds. _What’s love got to do, got to do with it?_ lamented Tina from the speakers. It sounded like the station was playing yet another all-eighties marathon - it was a miracle that they could dig up enough old disco hits to have so many dedicated playlists. Waylon turned the radio up, humming along absently. _Who needs a heart, when a heart can be broken?_  

  


Slowly, he realised he was in a comfortingly familiar neighbourhood. Somewhere along the way, he'd stopped concentrating on directions and allowed himself to just drive, and apparently he had automatically made a beeline to the Sconewall Bakery. It was one of his favourite independent shops; the pastries were truly phenomenal, and their artisan breads were expensive but unparalleled. He hadn't intended to come here today, but... Waylon parked up and checked his watch. He still had a little time before his hour was up and, even though he wasn't particularly hungry, lunch breaks _were_ intended for, well, lunch.

  


The range of sandwiches on offer at Sconewall was impressive, and they were well-known locally for their rainbow trout sourdoughs, but nine times out of ten Smithers would grab the firecracker chicken triple. It covered all four essential food groups: bread, meat, indistinguishable wilted green leaf, and hot sauce. Just as always, he reached for it, but as his stomach performed an unnerving somersault and grumbled in protest, he second-guessed himself. Perhaps... perhaps today, it would be best to play safe, at least until he was sure the nausea had fully gone. With a soft sigh, Smithers selected a plain cheese salad and a Diet Coke, paying up and heading back out to his car.

  


Perched on the driver's seat with his Coke balanced on the dash, Waylon ate his sandwich slowly. Good lord, that hit the spot! When was the last time he had managed anything that could be considered a real meal? Had he eaten on Friday evening? He couldn't quite remember. Regardless, it was amazing how much better a simple wedge of processed cheese pressed between two slices of white bread and a leaf of damp lettuce could make him feel.

  


… He'd protested at the time, but Mr. Burns had been right. Going outside _had_ cleared his head, to an almost remarkable degree. It was like a barely-visible haze had lifted from his mind, evaporating away in the clean-ish Springfield air. Even the sun felt  brighter, blazing warmer against his face.

  


A thought occurred that, here in the heart of Springfield’s gay quarter, he was more likely to accidentally bump into hardp0und than he had been in the park, but… as he savoured another bite of cheesy bread and listened to the sound of birdsong barely audible over the engines of passing traffic and the distant rattle of a streetcar, Smithers found himself less and less inclined to _care._ Hell, it could be the man in the checked shirt and chinos on the other side of the road, or the bear in the trilby walking past his car right now, whistling an off-key version of a recently released pop song, but so what if it _was?_ It wasn’t as though there would be any sort of public confrontation - more than likely, hardp0und was just as keen to stay away from him as he was from hardp0und.

  


And despite what his traitorous imagination tried to suggest, what did it matter if hardp0und was bigger than him? Months of exercising for Burns and working out to soothe his own ego had left Smithers with a not-inconsiderable amount of strength well disguised by his slim frame and slightly-chubby belly. On the few occasions he had been drawn in to a fist fight, he had bested men far bigger and stronger than himself through a mixture of physical ability and guile, and it was hardly as though hardp0und would attack him unprovoked  in the street. Drugging and grip-bruising aside, he hadn’t shown himself inclined towards gratuitous violence or sadistic tendencies - it would have been so easy to cause real damage if he had wanted, with Smithers unconscious and at his mercy. Aside from the aforementioned bruising and some slight friction redness, Smithers hadn’t found any injuries (though he had decided to ignore the scant blood speckles in his apartment; it was far easier not to think about _that_ ).

  


A cloud rolled by, briefly blocking out the sun. Smithers balled up the empty sandwich wrapper and put it on the passenger seat to dispose of later.

  


It was… inestimable, how much effect a single sandwich and a caffeinated beverage could have. Was it only half an hour ago that Waylon had been sitting on a park bench, chain-smoking and jumping with fright every time a man walked towards him? “You can be utterly pathetic sometimes,” he muttered to himself through a mouthful of Coke, but, unlike similar self-directed cruel words earlier that same day, there was no malice behind it.

  


Taking another sip of his drink before putting the can down in the cupholder, Waylon checked his watch. Hmm, his lunch break was almost up. Time to go back and face the afternoon.

  


oOo

  


By the time Smithers arrived back at the plant and made his way up to Mr. Burns’ office, Burns had discovered that one could entice the coffee machine to fulfil its life purpose by yelling an employee into the room and making them work the damn thing. He sat at his desk, cradling a mug of lukewarm disappointment, and regaling the tale to Smithers.

  


“ - yes, big chap. Very big chap. Mountains rose and fell when he walked, Smithers, and I would swear I saw infinity in the way his blubber continuously wobbled, like a monstrous fleshy ouroboros….”

  


“... are you...” Smithers chanced a guess, “...are you talking about Simpson, sir?”

  


“Who?” asked Burns, nonplussed.

  


“Homer Simpson, sir. One of your meat puppets from –”

  


“Oh, I don’t care where he’s from, Smithers, he’s utterly irrelevant excepting that he makes a very poor cup of coffee.”

  


“Allow me to clean it away for you, sir.”

  


Waylon reached towards the half-empty cup, but one bony hand waved in dismissal, stilling him instantly. Burns was peering at him, eyes narrowed.

  


“What's that on your neck, Smithers?”

  


Smithers panicked. His hands flew upwards as he stumbled for an answer, but Burns' hand was already there, reaching. How could he explain this? “It, uh – it –”

  


“Oh, it's only a leaf.” Burns was pulling away already, his fingers gently clutching the fragile stalk of a small yellow-green leaf he had plucked from the collar of Smithers' shirt. It must have blown into him from one of the trees in the park and got caught in his bow-tie; somehow the wind from the car ride hadn't blown it away. Waylon stared at it, his legs trembling with the sudden rush of relief. Thank _God._

  


Burns looked at him curiously. “That was a rather extreme reaction.”

  


It was phrased as a statement, but he clearly wanted an explanation. Smithers hesitated only briefly – he had one ready for this, at least. “Sorry, sir. I thought it might be a bee.”

  


“A bee?”

  


“Yes. I'm allergic to them, remember?”

  


“Oh,” Burns looked back at the leaf with some disinterest. “Yes, I remember. Something needlessly dramatic, as I recall.”

  


“Uh, the stings cause me to, you know. Die.”

  


“Yes, that’s it. Needlessly dramatic.”

  


Smithers rolled his shoulders in a shrug and clasped his hands behind his back as Burns turned to sit comfortably at his desk and return to his business papers. “If you say so, sir, but I’m sure I learned from you how to be dramatic about death.”

  


“Wha - I - shut _up_ , Smithers.”

  


Burns’ back was turned, so he didn’t see the relieved yet satisfied smile that settled on Smithers’ lips.

  


Compared to the morning, the rest of the afternoon passed like a dream. Smithers was still in a fairly melancholy mood, and the vague taste of nausea still lingered at the back of his throat, but surviving a day in his beloved office no longer seemed like an insurmountable task and was almost, dare he hope, beginning to broach ‘enjoyable’. At the end of the work day, like so many before, Burns demanded that Smithers chauffeur him home and assist in his personal affairs. Smithers was more than happy to do so, if only for the guilty pleasure of spending time alone with Burns in his mansion and enjoying the mundane domesticity of it. No matter the reason, once again, he seamlessly transitioned from ‘executive assistant’ to ‘butler’.

  


The constant presence of Mr. Burns throughout his otherwise fairly nightmarish day was both a blessing and a curse; for as much as merely looking at the man set Smithers’ mind at ease, Burns had such a way with words and was quick to pick up on weakness, which he would nip at relentlessly until provoking a reaction. Over the many years working for Burns, Smithers had developed somewhat of a thick skin and was not normally bothered by Burns’ needling - besides, he was increasingly spared the sharp tongue, which lashed over other, more reactive victims - but in today’s particularly fragile state it was hard not to take things personally.

  


Particularly when the object of criticism was a skill that Waylon was otherwise quite proud of, though he would be the first to admit he was no gourmet.

  


“I wasn’t planning on dining out tonight, Smithers, but after struggling through today I am… _somewhat_ concerned that you might burn my house down if you tried to cook.”

  


Smithers sighed. It stung, but he could hardly deny it. “An astute observation, sir.”

  


“Yet I can’t quite summon the energy to think of leaving the house and venturing to a drab watering-hole.”

  


“Quite the dilemma, sir. I promise I’ll do my utmost not to set you on fire if you wish me to prepare you something.”

  


Burns waved his hand dismissively. “No, no, I’d rather not take that risk. If only you had a woman who could cook for us, eh, Smithers?” He narrowed his eyes calculatingly as Smithers gave an uncomfortable one-shouldered shrug. “Actually, I’m rather in the mood for something ethnic. Perhaps a curried meat of some variety?”

  


“Perhaps not, sir. Remember last time you ordered an Indian meal? You couldn’t stop crying for hours.”

  


“Blast it, man, I wasn’t _crying!_ ” Burns sniffed at Smithers, looking a little offended. “How was I to know the damned thing would be hotter than a whorehouse on nickel night?”

  


“Uh, you remember it had a little picture of a chilli by it, sir? That’s to show it’s spicy.”

  


“What? I thought that meant it was vegetarian.”

  


Smithers kept his expression carefully neutral. “It was a _chicken_ curry, sir.”

  


“Yes, that’s right. Chickens are vegetarian, aren’t they?” Burns frowned and made a noise of dismissal. “Pft, all right, not Indian. Yet another let-down from the Raj. What about one of those Oriental-y places? They offer foods other  than opium now, don’t they? I could admit to a hankering for a sweetly soured noodle.”

  


“I’ll find a menu, sir.”

  


It took far longer than it needed to for Burns to decide what he wanted, as he showed his usual disinclination to attempt anything that had even a slightly foreign-sounding name (“what’s the point of the powers colonising those far-flung cesspits,” he asked Smithers irritably, “if they have the audacity not to conduct their affairs in English?”) Smithers, however, did not complain; it gave him a chance to consider his own choice. Usually he would opt for something drenched in Szechuan sauce, or perhaps the hot and sour soup, but with these options off the table for the day he found himself briefly stymied, trying to decide on something that would not upset his delicate, pernickety stomach.  

  


Finally, however, after a half hour wait and a brief argument between Burns and the deliveryman over the etiquette of tipping - Smithers slipped the poor man a twenty when Burns’ back was turned before slamming the door in his face - they had settled at one of the smaller dining tables in the mansion with boxes of utterly average Chinese.

  


“Why do you insist on eating with those knitting needles, Smithers?” asked Burns, leaning back in his chair and pushing his half-empty plate away.

  


“Uh, you mean the chopsticks, sir? I guess I like the authenticity.”

  


“Too fiddly! Look at how long it’s taking you to eat! If you keep meandering at this rate, I’ll be dead before dessert!”

  


Smithers chased a slice of water chestnut around his plate. “I don’t mind if you don’t wait, sir.”

  


“Probably for the best, because I wasn’t planning on waiting. Now, did they pack in any of those ‘fortunate cookies’? I do like the intrigue of reading the microfiche within.”

  


Fishing around in the delivery bag for a moment, Burns found what he was looking for hidden beneath the order receipt. The fortune cookie’s foil packet was easy-tear, and he disposed of it without struggle, but was quickly frustrated by the cookie itself, straining with all his might against the two sides of the tiny baked confection.

  


“Hhnngh! Drat it all, Smithers, rip open this starchy strongbox for me.”

  


Smithers took the cookie and snapped it open easily, sliding the little paper slip out and handing it back to Burns. “You loosened it for me, sir.”

  


“Yes, yes,” with a dismissive wave of his hand, Burns peered at his fortune, his brow furrowing in a frown. “Well, what the devil is this supposed to mean? Oh, I can’t make hide nor hair of these newfangled enigmograms.”

  


“Hm, one of those cryptic fortunes, sir? What does it say?”

  


“‘It’s only fun when it’s hard.’”

  


Smithers choked on his lemon chicken.

  


“It’s patently ridiculous,” Burns continued, either not noticing or, more likely, ignoring his assistant’s red-faced spluttering. “Crushing my enemies is fun, but I wouldn’t call it _hard._ Counting money is fun, and that’s only hard if I drop a zero by accident - _really_ , Smithers, what is the matter with you?”

  


“Sorry, sir,” said Smithers as he came up for air, eyes watering.

  


“What do you mean by attempting to expire over my dining table?”

  


“Wholly unintentional, sir, I promise.”

  


“You’ve been behaving oddly all day!”

  


Smithers swigged his drink to ease the burning in his throat and remained silent. Curse that Mr. Burns would have one of his flashes of brilliant insight _now._

  


“I’ll overlook this time because of your sterling performance history in my employ, but I must say, Smithers, today has shown a _shocking_ decline in the quality of your yessery.”

  


“Sorry, sir.”

  


“Are you ill?”

  


“No, sir.”

  


“Are you losing your mind?”

  


“Uh,” Smithers blinked and laid his chopsticks down. “Not… not to my knowledge, sir.”

  


Burns’ eyes narrowed. “Are you angling for a day off?”

  


“Absolutely not!”

  


Smithers said it with considerably more force than he intended, and Burns actually looked somewhat taken aback, the slip of fortune falling from his fingers.

  


“Well - just - I have no interest in your life, Smithers, and I don’t want you bringing it into the office. Now, after you’ve cleaned up the remnants of this delectable ethnic cuisine, go home and sort yourself out, and I expect you back on your top form tomorrow. Understand?”

  


Quietly voicing his agreement, Smithers began to do as he was bidden, carefully avoiding meeting Burns’ eye just in case he saw the look of disgusted disappointment he was sure he heard reflected in the tone of his master’s voice.

  


oOo

  


After the disaster that was Monday, thankfully, things only improved. Each day that passed was easier; the aches in Smithers’ body slowly subsided, the haze in his mind gradually lifted, the memories seamlessly melted away. By Thursday, even the bruises on his neck had started to fade and the redness on his thighs had gone almost completely.

  


It was with significantly reduced paranoia that Smithers ventured to work as the week progressed; Mr. Burns had not noticed his injuries at their peak, and he showed no signs of the slightest inkling that anything was wrong (admittedly he had been throwing increasingly odd looks at Smithers these past few days, but it seemed mostly to be whenever the conversation drifted towards women, and Waylon assumed Burns was curious about whether he was ‘getting any’ - he always tried to gently change the topic when it arose.)

  


In the evenings he had been following a routine - visit the gym for an hour or two just to get back into the habit and take out his lingering rage on the barbell, then return home to a shower, dinner if he hadn’t already eaten with Burns, and tidying the last dregs of guilt out of his apartment with the radio blaring. Somehow, it was easier to detach from the situation and scrub the stains out of the carpet to a backdrop of Flashdance.

  


When the last cushion was plumped and dropped back into place on the sofa, Smithers stood back with his hands on his hips and surveyed his living room with an air of quiet satisfaction. _If you be my bodyguard,_ sang the radio (Waylon wondered, yet again, whether the station ever played music from any other decade), _I can be your long-lost pal -_

  


Ah. Finally done with cleaning. It was so insignificant a thing, yet somehow an achievement. Perhaps it was time to treat himself...

  


In the front of one of his kitchen cupboards, Waylon kept a box of cinnamon roll pop-tarts. He didn’t often eat them as they were far too sweet for his palate to have regularly, but, every now and then when the craving hit, he would sneak one into the toaster and enjoy another of life’s guilty pleasures.

  


To celebrate both his clean apartment and the fact that the bruises had faded to barely discoloured brown marks already, he automatically reached for his sugary vice.

  


The box was… upsettingly light. Smithers frowned. He knew - or he thought he knew - he had at least one packet left in there; he wouldn’t have put the damn thing back in the cupboard if it was empty.

  


Giving the box a little shake, Waylon was rewarded with a soft noise of movement. He was right - the box _wasn’t_ empty, but whatever was in there, it wasn’t a pop-tart. Even more confused, he opened it up and poured the contents out on to the table.

  


“What the -”

  


Though he hadn’t really known what to expect, whatever he _had_ expected, it had certainly not been the four used condoms which tumbled out onto his freshly-cleaned placemat.

  


Smithers _stared._ How in the _hell_ had they gotten in there? All he could think - the only possible explanation - was that the box had come out of the cupboard the other day, and one of them - either hardp0und or himself in his drugged, vacant state - had used it as a trash can after eating the last pop-tart. Somehow, instead of the garbage, it had been tidied away back into the cupboard. Smithers didn’t remember seeing it, let alone tidying it up, but there was a lot he could no longer remember about that horrible zombie-like Sunday.

  


… Ugh. Gingerly using a piece of tissue to pick up the discarded rubbers, Smithers dropped them back into the pop-tart box and put the box out with the burnables. At least he was a little more sure now that he hadn’t been barebacked, but it would have been nice if he’d managed to dispose of the evidence in a cupboard that _didn’t_ contain food. What else was he going to find in the coming weeks, hidden away in odd corners? Handcuffs in the fridge? Anal beads in the lava lamp? Heaven forbid; it was probably a miracle that his obsessive tidying hadn’t already unearthed something upsetting.

  


With a brief frown, Waylon retrieved a bottle of beer from the fridge and cracked it open on the edge of his work surface. His good mood had evaporated like spill of water on a hot plate, but it was replaced by a faint irritation rather than any sort of depression; though he knew he should probably feel _something_ about the soiled condoms in his dry goods cupboard, he was far more preoccupied with the absolute lack of pop-tart in his pantry.

  


What time was it now…? He’d come home from the office relatively early today - Burns had some private business dinner with one of his on-again off-again frenemies (Amadopolis perhaps?), and Smithers had been dismissed towards the start of the evening. Burns had sent him on his way after sneering something similar to ‘ _Honestly, Smithers, you’re my assistant, not my babysitter.’_

  


Ah… it was already past ten. Perhaps he could head to a convenience store and pick up something sweet? Or probably he should sort dinner out for himself. Briefly, Smithers toyed with the idea of ordering a takeaway, but he quickly shot down the idea. Twice in one week was too much.

  


Well. He had some soup, he had some instant noodles and - check the fridge - yes, he had an onion and some elderly-looking white cabbage. Chicken noodle soup it was, then, and hopefully to spend the rest of the night relaxing in front of the television watching something utterly mindless. He’d be able to stop by the shop tomorrow, either for himself or on orders from Mr. Burns. Maybe he’d stop by Sconewall on the way home; he’d buy pastries to refill his cupboards then - maybe something a little more substantial than pop-tarts.

  


oOo

  


The long-awaited sunny Friday morning arrived like a beloved family member returning home from a long posting abroad. Mr. Burns sat back in his chair with a self-satisfied smirk and steepled his fingers. For some reason, something that he could not figure out and did not care to try, Smithers had been clingier than usual this week. While it was certainly convenient to have Smithers so immediately at his beck and call at all times, it did make it far harder to find a moment alone and set up his test. It had taken coming in to the office early just to have some guaranteed time alone, but he had finally found what he had been looking for.

  


The photo had turned up buried at the bottom of one of his desk drawers, beneath a pile of forged cheques and incomplete tax declarations. It was a glossy print of Jacqueline Bouvier, taken after one of their evening recitals.  He’d kept it, not out of any lingering affection, but just in case he decided that the next course of action should be to hire a hitman.

  


For a moment, Burns stared at the photo, frowning. His conclusion seemed almost ludicrous; how on earth could Smithers, still fairly young and not completely unattractive, be desperate enough to hold feelings for an old hag like Bouvier? Then again, what other explanation could there be for the jealousy that, in hindsight, was so very obvious?

  


Sighing at the complexities of youth, Burns positioned the photograph on his desk, angling it carefully so that it would be very obvious to Smithers but so it wouldn’t catch his own eye too much. Despite the time that had passed, the sight of the woman was still enough to stir irritation in his chest.

  


It was a good half an hour before Smithers arrived. Though at least an hour earlier than he was contracted for, Smithers was still deeply apologetic when he entered the office and saw Burns already sitting at his desk. Burns waved the apology away with one hand.

  


“Have you eaten breakfast, sir?”

  


“Mm? Oh. Yes.”

  


Was it Burns’ imagination, or did Smithers look a little disappointed?

  


“Can I at least get you a coffee then, sir? I can use your favourite mug.”

  


It was almost amusing, the amount of desperation in his voice. Smithers was a commodity rarely found in this world; a perfectly-trained subservient personality whose entire world seemed to revolve around eagerly yet competently fulfilling Burns’ every whim and who, unusually, appeared to have no designs on claiming Burns’ money or power as his own. Burns knew he would never find a better assistant.

  


“If you want, Smithers. The cup is on my desk.”

  


With a vague gesture at his desk, Burns sat back in his chair and watched his assistant approach. He couldn’t miss noticing it now, and hopefully his reaction would tell...

  


“Oh God,” said Smithers, seeing the carefully-positioned photo and looking sharply back up at Burns, “that's the Bouvier lady. You're not falling for her again, are you, sir? Mr. Burns, she broke your heart!”

  


“Codswallop! I barely had a heart to break! Besides,” his voice gained a conspiratorial tone and he stared down his beak-like nose, studying Smithers' face closely, “I hear she has a penchant for younger men.”

  


“I doubt it, sir,” Smithers gave nothing away as he studied the photograph impassively. “She left you for Abe Simpson, didn’t she? He's hardly a spring chicken himself.”

  


“Hmph! Yes, well. I was considering asking her to the club's monthly swing soirée, what do you say?”

  


Smithers certainly didn't look comfortable with the prospect, but he clasped his hands behind his back and shrugged. “If you want to give it another chance, sir, who am I to stand in the way of love? I just don't want to see you hurt again. I don't know what she could have been thinking to turn you down in the first place.”

  


Blast. Indecisive. Burns steepled his fingers, peering at Smithers over the top of them.

  


“I was thinking of sending her a communiqué.”

  


“A brilliant start, sir.”

  


“I seem to recall that your endeavours on the matter last time were quite excellent and I want you to assist me.”

  


“... fine.”

  


Burns' lips tightened. There it was, the hint of jealousy. It was subtle, but noticeable. Smithers usually leapt at the chance to perform even the most menial of tasks; it was unusual for him to accept a command from Burns with such bad grace - but then, he had been slightly off for the whole week, hadn’t he?

  


“Have you made a start already, sir? What do you have so far?”

  


“Mm? Oh, ah - well, I was thinking of starting with something suitably youthful and snappy, to re-pique her interest,” Burns dug his elbow lightly into Smithers’ ribs. Quite removed from his normal jovial self, Smithers just looked vaguely unsettled.  “Perhaps… oh, how about ‘Dearest…’ uh….” he glanced at Smithers hopelessly.

  


“Jacqueline, sir.”

  


“Yes, ‘Dearest Jacqueline.’ How’s that to lead in to a display of bullish virility!”

  


“She’ll be hooked on every word, sir,” said Smithers, his tone carefully neutral.

  


Burns sat back, his fingers once again tenting over his desk as he regarded Smithers coolly over the top of them. “I didn’t ask for your sycophantic toadying, Smithers, just your writing. Oh, and I feel like exercising a little later, so make sure it’s finished before then.”

  


Though Smithers barely glanced at him, Burns could see how uncomfortable he looked - no, was uncomfortable the right word? Or should it be unhappy? Unwilling? Was he right, then, was Smithers jealous of his rekindling a relationship with Mrs. Bouvier? But before he could think too deeply about it, Smithers had turned away, his shoulders heaving in a very slight sigh.

  


“Yes, sir.”

  


 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Everyone: why  
> Me: ¯\\_( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)_/¯

Inspiration could leave him high and dry at the most inopportune times.

 

Staring at the notepaper, blank but for the 'Dearest Jacqueline' neatly penned at the top and the various scribbled-out lines beneath, Smithers sighed and ran one hand through his hair distractedly. He'd retreated to the solitude of his office to try and complete Burns' latest task, but it was proving a lot more difficult than he'd anticipated and even the quiet, still room did nothing to help kick-start his thought processes. 

 

Writing a love note to a woman was hard enough, let alone someone old enough to be his grandmother. Contrary to all evidence, Smithers was adamant that he had no attraction to old people (Mr Burns wasn't 'old people,' rationalised his defensive mind; Mr Burns was Mr Burns and therefore didn't count.)

 

_ Dearest ~~Mrs Bouvier~~ Jacqueline, _

 

~~_ Would you like to attend  _ ~~

 

~~_ Your eyes are like two [ask Mr B what colour her eyes are] _ ~~

 

~~_ I miss you a lot and think we should  _ ~~

 

Sighing again in frustration and sitting back in his chair, Smithers let his head fall back. This was nightmarish. How was he supposed to write a love letter on behalf of Burns to someone he absolutely wished would walk her way straight out of Burns' life and mind forever? He toyed several times with the idea of writing something utterly obscene, something guaranteed to turn Mrs. Bouvier's stomach and dissuade her from ever daring to rekindle that short-lived romance, but... well, Burns was sure to read anything he put forward before sending it, wasn't he? The man was naïve sometimes, but he was far from stupid. Such blatant sabotage could only end badly.

 

Perhaps... if he turned on the radio quietly, for some background noise? Perhaps, he caught himself thinking snidely, there would be another eighties marathon? It seemed so easy these days to get a broadcasting job; as long as you could read a typed news bulletin in a semi-clear voice and knew how to set an eighties mixtape to play, apparently anyone could do it. 

 

Surprisingly, the song that was playing when he tuned into KBBL wasn't from the eighties. Heck, it wasn't even a popular song, was it? He recognised it as a nineties song from Europe somewhere – mid-nineties, maybe? - by a band called, uh... Beautiful... god, what was it? Beautiful Something. He hadn't heard it often, once or twice at most, but he quite liked it; the lyrics resonated with him in a bittersweet way. Obviously, the radio was playing a censored edit, but he knew the true words and sung them surreptitiously under his breath, wishing he could direct them somehow to Burns and that the man would hear and understand. “ _Don't marry her – fuck me.”_

 

A shaft of afternoon sun shone through the open window, catching on the dust motes in the air, and a soft breeze ruffled his hair. _Don't marry her;_ _fuck me_. The phrase bounced around the inside of his mind, a silent plea that Burns would never hear. Even the song itself turned to white noise as his pen moved. Before he realised it, he'd written the damn words on the paper, which now read:

 

_ Dearest ~~Mrs Bouvier~~ Jacqueline, _

 

~~_ Would you like to attend  _ ~~

 

~~_ Your eyes are like two [ask Mr B what colour her eyes are] _ ~~

 

~~_ I miss you a lot and think we should  _ ~~

 

_ Don't marry her; fuck me. _

 

Heck. Even his subconscious knew where to put a semi-colon. 

 

Tutting at himself in frustration, Waylon balled up the now-useless note and threw it towards his waste-paper basket. It hit the rim and bounced off, rolling just near the edge of his desk. He rolled his eyes and tutted at it as he faced the fresh page on the notepad and started again. He'd pick it up later. 

 

Wouldn't it be nice, though? asked that traitorous voice in the back of his head, unbidden. Wouldn't it be nice if you could say that to his face? 

 

Don't think about that, he told himself sternly. Don't think about approaching Mr. Burns with a bottle and a bouquet and suggesting making a date of it; don't think about saying those damn words to him, about falling to your knees and begging him like everyone knows you would; don't think about him considering it as he stares down his nose at you with that haughty yet endearing look of puzzled innocence on his face before finally agreeing; don't think about his lips, dry and cracked with age and hot with a lingering breath, against yours; don't think about his fingertips drawing sinful patterns against your bare skin; absolutely do not think about him undoing your shirt button by button and sliding his hands, withered yet graceful, lower and lower...

 

Too late, Waylon. You're thinking about it already. 

 

Clearing his throat loudly, Smithers pulled off his glasses and started cleaning them furiously. Maybe.. maybe the radio wasn't helping after all. He turned it off with one unsteady hand. Harder to ignore, and also certainly not helping, was the rapidly increasing tightness in his trousers; he wished he could turn that off so easily. In desperation, he tried to force himself to think about any number of unpleasant things, from his dreadful week to the idea of kissing Mrs. Bouvier (unpleasant on _so many_ levels), but his uncooperative mind always found a way to divert his runaway train of thought back on to the track which led to Burns: Burns' long fingers (had he ever played piano? He had a pianist's fingers) were elegant and graceful and delicate and probably so able to pull a moan from Waylon if they were to touch him tenderly... Burns' voice, so often sharp and scathing, swallowed by a deep kiss... Burns' body, thin and fragile, would look so perfect with his back bent in a sinful arch and his head thrown back in pleasured abandon...

 

Smithers' imagination, longing to be distracted from writing a love letter he didn't care for, latched on to every dreamed sensation and every vivid image it could create. The feeling of phantom fingers, their touch light through frailty, left tingly trails over his skin. He could feel the slight flush on his cheeks. _Damn._ Was this really all it took to get him this heated? Either he was laughably desperate, or there was some lingering after-effect of harp0und's drug which still lay dormant in him almost a week later; no matter how convenient an excuse that would be, it was almost certainly the first option.

 

Forehead dropping into his hands, Waylon lamented his own lack of control. The occasional – or not so occasional, as the case may be – daydream about Burns was one thing, but he had, once again, taken things too far. It certainly wasn't the first time he had been faced with hiding an erection at work, but it had been quite a while since his last such slip-up, and today it was a hassle he didn't need. At least – and this really was a larger blessing than it appeared – he had been alone in his own office, instead of standing in his usual place behind Burns' desk. On more than one occasion Smithers had found his mind racing for an excuse after letting his thoughts wander to steamy, heated places, when it looked like Burns was dangerously close to noticing something he didn't need to. 

 

… This was no good. While he would probably be able to get away with it if he remained sitting at his desk, with his legs planted firmly where they were and his mind distracted by something utterly unsexy until his lust gave up and went back to sleep, Burns had mentioned wanting to exercise, and _that_ involved a change of clothes. There was absolutely no way this little issue would resolve itself while he helped Burns undress, and there was an equally small chance of Burns not noticing while Smithers himself changed into his sportswear. While his work trousers may just be about baggy enough to pass it off as an unfortunate crease, his boxers most certainly were not. No, like it or not, he'd have to take a more active approach to solving this problem.

 

Congratulations, he told himself sarcastically. Here you are, once again about to sneak off and masturbate in a public toilet at your own workplace. You should be proud.

 

At least the restroom on this floor was rarely used by anyone but himself (Burns, of course, had his private suite attached to his office by a secret door hidden behind a panel in the wall – even Smithers wasn't sure which one; when he'd asked, Burns had said, with an inscrutable expression, that he would rather no one know where he was at his most vulnerable). At least there was very little chance of someone walking in and wondering why one of the cubicles was occupied for so long.

 

Smithers glanced at the door to Burns' office. It... was firmly closed, and it didn't sound like Burns was imminently wanting him. Fine.

 

Taking off his jacket, he folded it over his arm and held it in front of him as he stood up. His waist and hips were well hidden, meaning that he wouldn't have any awkward questions to face if he happened to pass someone in the corridor, but moving remained deeply uncomfortable as he pressed too firmly against the restricting material of his trousers.

 

Walking unnaturally, Waylon hurried out of his office, heading for the privacy of a bathroom cubicle and the guilty relief of his own hand. 

 

oOo

 

Rumour had it that some bright spark had invented a pocket-watch you no longer had to wear in your pocket. 

 

As he fumbled with opening his own burnished golden timepiece, which was intricate and valuable but far too heavy to be practical, Monty Burns fervently hoped this rumour was true. He'd firmly rejected Smithers' well-meaning suggestion of buying a wristwatch; he wasn't desperate enough to stoop to wearing _jewellery,_ and everyone knew that wristwatches were only worn by women. His assistant had tried affixing a wall clock above the door to his office, but in the long periods of silence while he worked the incessant ticking had almost driven him insane; he wasn't sure how the youth of the day could deal with something so annoying. He'd left it up on the wall for decoration but all the fiddly little mechanisms had been taken out1. 

 

_Then_ Smithers had told him that there was a clock on the computer on his desk. 

 

Smithers was loyal and hardworking and fairly trustworthy, and Burns wasn't often inclined to accuse the man of needless joculatory wriguldy-wrag, but he could not see how Smithers could be telling him the truth in this instance. _How_ could there be a clock on the computer? Where was the clockwork? Where were the _hands?_

 

Burns snapped his pocket-watch shut, needing the strength of all ten fingers to do so. There was still over an hour until lunch, but it was later than he expected and he was starting to hunger for the grape salad he had prepared for himself the night before (privately, he was hugely proud of this achievement despite said grape salad consisting of exactly three grapes and no salad).

 

What was Smithers _doing?_ Where was his usual efficacy? How could it take him this long to write a simple love note? 

 

The decline in the quality of Smithers' work over the last week had been almost shocking, but the fact that he had almost certainly been whittling away at a simple piece of writing for over an hour...

 

Burns frowned impatiently and drummed his fingers on the desk. Hadn't he mentioned to Smithers that he wanted to exercise today? Didn't Smithers _know_ he wanted to get about an hour in before lunch so he could properly work up an appetite and not risk taunting the wasp's nest of indigestion? He must; he was well-versed in Burns' moods and quite often knew what Burns wanted before Burns could voice it or, sometimes, was even aware of it himself.

 

He rose to his feet and stalked to his office door. It had been a long time since he had felt the need to supervise Smithers' work, but this week his assistant really did seem to need a swift sharp kick to get him motivated. 

 

For a moment, Burns paused at the door. A little earlier he had heard a tinny electronic wailing, probably from Smithers' wireless as it blared out whatever it was that passed for music these days (certainly not a patch on the greats – it was no Cantor and Berlin, nor Van Brunt, that was for sure) but now the air was eerily silent. Still frowning, he pushed the door open and crossed the small corridor to Smithers' office opposite.

 

Smithers was not at his desk. In fact, the room was empty. 

 

Burns stepped inside, puzzled. Where was Smithers? He could barely think of any times he had set a task for his right-hand man that hadn't been either immediately fulfilled or, if it was wholly unreasonable, gently challenged. It was unheard of for Smithers to just _disappear_.

 

The man had better have a damn good reason for this French leave. 

 

He walked towards Smithers' abandoned desk with the vague thought that there might perhaps be some indication there as to where Smithers had gone, but was interrupted when his foot bounced off something on the floor by the waste-paper basket. He looked down at it curiously. 

 

It was a piece of good writing paper, scrunched up into a ball and clumsily discarded. Burns unfolded it and laid it upon the desk, smoothing the creases out enough to read it. From the looks of it, it was the start of an attempt at the letter he had asked Smithers to write, though from the amount of scribbles on the page it seemed as though it had been hastily aborted.

 

_ Dearest ~~Mrs Bouvier~~ Jacqueline, _

 

~~_ Would you like to attend  _ ~~

 

~~_ Your eyes are like two [ask Mr B what colour her eyes are] _ ~~

 

~~_ I miss you a lot and think we should  _ ~~

 

_ Don't marry her; fuck me. _

 

Monty Burns blinked several times, as though expecting the words on the page to change the instant he looked away. They didn't.

 

_ Well.  _ That was certainly...  _direct._ And coming from Smithers, a man who had made an art form out of euphemism and inference? Goodness, he'd hardly thought it of the man to be so forward – he was such a  _bore!_ – but he had to admit it  _did_ get the point across with very little ambiguity. Perhaps, though, he would have to have a brief word with Smithers about the concept of tact. No wonder Smithers had no luck with women, if that was the way he worded his propositions. Having run in to the same problem at least once in his youth, Burns was surprised to find himself feeling just a smidgen of sympathy.

 

But what was this  _'don't marry her'_ business? It had been a long time since Burns had spoken to Jacqueline Bouvier, but he didn't recall her having any of those curious sapphic tendencies. Did she really, as the young folks said, play for the away team? Was she truly a tribade, engaged to be wed to a woman? Perhaps he shouldn't be surprised, Burns thought snidely; she must have worked her way through all the men in town now, considering the speed with which she moved on to her next beau after leaving him. Maybe she'd just exhausted all her other options.

 

Satisfied with his introspective dragging of Bouvier's name through the mud, he turned his attention to the crossed-out attempts at sentences. The more he looked at them, the more he began to wonder whether he had been grossly mistaken. Smithers seemed to be... struggling. The language flip-flopped between purely professional and awkward endeavours at frigid romance, and Smithers had even left himself a note to check with Burns about the colour of the lady's eyes. As though Burns would remember something like that!

 

Either Smithers was a  _genius_ at hiding his feelings, or there were no feelings there to hide. 

 

And speaking of _hiding..._

 

Where the hell _was_ Smithers? Burns had been standing here in his office pondering the note for at least five minutes, and that was surely long enough for anyone to spend in the bathroom while on Burns' payroll. Especially Smithers, who more often than not was so eager to serve Burns' every whim that he skipped going to the bathroom at all until he was off the clock. 

 

How dare he sneak away like this without Burns' express permission? A spark of irritation ignited itself, the flame fanned by the nagging doubt that perhaps his deduction, which he had been so proud of, was wrong. No, no – it was too soon to say just yet. Smithers was an intelligent chap, perceptive and sharp, and he had shown himself on more than one occasion to possess a level of deviousness and cunning that, while far from Burns' level, was worthy of some small amount of respect. 

 

Screwing the piece of paper back into a ball, Burns threw it at the bin with all his strength. It landed at his feet, pathetically close to the tip of his shoe. He glared at it as though willing it to have travelled further, but despite his temper it stayed stubbornly where it was. Relenting, he gave it a kick powered by frustration, and it rolled under Smithers' desk. 

 

Enough was enough. Time to hunt down his wayward employee and remind him of his place.

 

oOo

 

Of all the inappropriate fantasies he had about his employer, Waylon's favourite by far was the one where Burns ordered him up onto his desk. There was something about the vision of the billionaire sitting unaffected in his chair, with his sharp suit and his sharp gaze and his sharp tongue, while his faithful, obedient assistant trembled before him exposed for his pleasure. _Ah, Smithers_ , said the phantom in his mind, _such a perfect plaything..._

 

_ What would you like me to do today, sir? Do you want to fuck me, or shall I just suck you off?  _

 

A sneer. Burns always sneered, in his fantasy far more than in reality. The haughty expression suited his cultured face, with its angular jaw and high cheekbones, far more than it had any right to. _No, you desperate, filthy thing, you won't be touching me today. Perform for me. Show me the extent of your enthusiasm, my little bardash_. 

 

His body and his desire firmly in the real world despite his wandering thoughts, Waylon bit down on a moan as he worked his hand. Absolutely not. That he had lost control enough to be worked up this much, perched on the porcelain in a locked cubicle in the otherwise deserted restroom was already humiliating, but he would not risk any sort of noise escaping. As rare as it was for anyone to come in here... heh, knowing his luck recently, the instant he allowed any sort of moan to escape would be the instant the entire workforce needed to use these particular facilities. 

 

The Burns of his fantasy licked his lips. _Closer, pet. Let me see every inch of you._ Dream-Waylon scrambled to obey, on all fours on Burns' otherwise-immaculate desk surface. With supreme control Burns adjusted himself and reached for Smithers' bow-tie. With a strength his real-life counterpart would struggle to achieve, he pulled Smithers in, their faces barely a hairsbreadth apart. For a moment, Smithers swore he could feel Burns' hot breath across his cheek, swore he could feel the man's other hand thread into his sandy hair and grasp a handful, tilting his head back so he could steal a hungry kiss...

 

… His bow-tie was getting uncomfortably tight. With his spare hand, Waylon reached up and tugged it loose, undoing the top button of his shirt to allow himself an easier time breathing as the pressure built.

 

_ Smithers _ , hissed the voice in the swirling haze of his mind. He could see Burns crossing his legs elegantly, surveying him in the same ravenous way a cat might stare at an injured mouse.  _Smithers..._

 

_ Sir _ , he answered in kind, but the voice kept asking, more and more insistent. 

 

_ Smithers... _

 

“SMITHERS!”

 

A heavy cracking sound echoed through his little cubicle as the restroom door slammed open. Poor Waylon almost castrated himself in his panic, biting down on the scream just in time as he was jolted rudely from his make-believe – that was Burns' irritated voice coming from the other side of the locked stall door. 

 

“Smithers, are you in here?”

 

Tears squeezing themselves out of his eyes, Smithers made a valiant attempt to keep his voice level. “Sir...?”

 

Burns sounded half-furious and half... what, half-relieved? Or was that nothing more than the remnants of Waylon's hungry imagination searching for something that wasn't there? “What the _devil_ are you doing? I never expected truancy from _you!”_

 

“Ah – sorry, sir...” His voice shook just the barest bit, but at least the mixture of shock and pain seemed to have put the final nail in the coffin of his wilting erection. Thank _goodness. Quick, Waylon, find an excuse – any excuse!_ “It's, uh... stomach trouble.”

 

There was a brief silence. Smithers could almost hear the grimace.

 

“I don't have time for your bodily conundrums, Smithers. It's past eleven! I'm sure I told you I wanted a brisk work-out before lunch, and you haven't even finished that letter I asked you for! You can have your biological mishaps on your own time, do you hear me? Now get out here.”

 

“Oh, uh... right away, sir.”

 

Hurriedly wiping himself down and tucking everything away, Smithers flushed away the soiled tissue he had used and opened the cubicle door.

 

Mr. Burns was standing there with his arms crossed, a peevish frown marring his perfect face. As Smithers sheepishly moved towards the sinks to wash his hands and face, he saw in the mirror that Burns' expression was tempering itself with a little... what, concern? Though he must look quite a state, he thought with wry amusement; his face was flushed and sweaty, with his bow-tie undone and his shirt dishevelled... _Hopefully_ Burns would take that at face-value and assume he had been suffering with his 'upset stomach', rather than leaping to any more unfortunate (if more correct) conclusions.

 

“Smithers....”

 

Waylon held his breath as he turned away from the sink. 

 

“Perhaps...” Burns paused, surveying his assistant again. “Perhaps you should take something before we exercise? You know where my prescriptions are; I'm sure there's some sort of antiemetic in there that wouldn't disagree with you too much.”

 

“Ah...” he let out a sigh of deep relief. “Thank you sir, but I think I should be fine.”

 

“Are you sure? I'm not in the mood for you to boke on my gymnasium floor.”

 

“Absolutely, sir.” Smithers took a paper towel and wiped his face before drying his hands. “See? I feel better already.” 

 

Burns looked utterly unconvinced – Smithers was still sweaty and out-of-breath, after all – but he turned on his heel and walked out of the bathroom muttering something to himself. Though Smithers did not hear the words, he could easily imagine their content – incompetence, laziness, unpaid work breaks...

 

With a sigh, walking a little stiffly with the residual pain from his aborted orgasm, he followed Burns out of the restroom and back towards his office, where the task of writing a love letter he did not even want to think about still waited for him, followed by the joy of exercising for two. 

 

* * *

 

 

1 His leaving the broken clock on the wall had turned out to have an unexpected bonus during meetings with some of his slower employees, who left his office convinced it was four hours earlier than it actually was and ended up staying at their own desks far later than quitting time. This, of course, was only effective for those smart enough to tell time in the first place yet too dumb to check their own clock upon returning to their post. In fact, he'd only ever known it to work on Lenford Leonard, but it _had_ worked on multiple occasions, and by the time the man had realised his mistake he'd been too embarrassed about it to even try claiming overtime (which Burns wouldn't have paid anyway, because as a matter of principle he refused to reward stupidity, and any _smart_ employee would have known better than to try claiming extra pay in the first place).

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me: watches the simpsons sometimes  
> Me: stans for burnsmithers  
> Also me: completely fuckin forgets that burns wears a watch in every single opening sequence SHUT UP LET ME LIVE


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *old woman voice* It's been eighty-four years....
> 
> Half of this was written in an aeroplane above international waters, so it's guaranteed certified 100% not illegal ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)

“Arms up, sir.”

 

The sports hoodie was as small as the tailor said he could make it before moving down to child-size patterns, but it still hung loosely from Burns' wispy frame. Smithers slipped it easily over the frail raised arms, but hesitated before continuing to pull it down. Every time he changed Mr. Burns, his eyes were always drawn back to that terrible scar left by the bullet so many years before.

 

Once again, he resisted the urge to press his fingertips to it in a light, soothing caress which would have been wholly inappropriate for the workplace, even if he _were_ confident Burns wouldn't fire him on the spot for taking such a liberty.

 

That, perhaps, had been the worst moment of his life. Hearing that Mr. Burns had been shot... and, as if that were not enough, the slow, suffocating dread that accompanied the belief the bullet had come from _his_ gun...

 

Waylon had nothing against firearms, and preferred to stay fairly neutral on the politically-charged issue of gun control, but he hadn't regularly carried one since.

 

“Mmph! Smithers, have you given up any pretence you had at competence? Stop your lollygagging and pull this infernal recreational smock out from my face!”

 

“Ah!” Hurriedly, Smithers resumed tugging the loose top down, though not before absently noting the slight bulge of Mr. Burns' soft belly. It looked like he had put some weight back on after that short bout of flu last winter, when at his worst he had barely been able to stomach much more than bland watery porridge for the best part of a week.

 

Waylon felt a stirring in his abdomen, his body clearly still more than ready to return to illicit escapades in a toilet cubicle. _Not_ the time, he told himself sternly, and – thankfully! - this time, his self-control held fast.

 

Finally, like a groundhog nervously poking its whiskers up out of its hole on the first day of spring, Burns' head popped through the neck of his sweater. Even with the tinge of a short-tempered glare on his face, he still looked... well, there was no better word for it than 'adorable'. For a moment, Waylon fumbled. For a moment, he hesitated, lost in his own infatuation, but he quickly looked away and busied himself undoing his bow-tie. He was lucky; only the barest hint of a rosy flush lingered on his cheeks.

 

Changing his clothes to a backing soundtrack of Mr. Burns' soft impatient tutting, Smithers hung up both work suits on their hangers and neatly folded their shirts (as the one who would doubtless end up ironing them later, he may as well save himself some work now.) When everything was neat to his satisfaction – and when it seemed Burns' patience was wearing thin enough for him to start criticising – Smithers rose to his feet and waited, as normal, for Burns to lead the way to the exercise room.

 

“How is the routine starting today, sir?” he asked quietly, shedding his jacket almost immediately upon entering the small but well-equipped gym. Though the chill air of the unheated room drew a shiver from him and raised the hairs on his arms, he knew that he wouldn't need the jacket much longer; experience told him that Burns would accuse him of goldbricking unless the sweat ran in visible streams down his back. Waylon hated being sticky, and there was no better way to become sticky than overheating in a thick hoodie. Well, at least no better way that he'd be willing to admit to at work.

 

Burns looked brighter than he had all day. “Oh, I think thirty miles or so would be a good start, eh Smithers? Get that blood pumping?”

 

With a sigh, Waylon helped Burns mount the exercise bike. He had... mixed feelings about spinning. On the one hand, he'd always preferred weights to cardio, and he wasn't overly keen on cycling even using a normal bicycle that wasn't bolted to the floor. It was just so... so boring. At least on an outdoor cycle, there were the mixed joys of watching the dubious skyline of Springfield pass by while precariously dodging traffic. On the other hand, however, it _was_ nice to ride a bike without fearing for his life, and, above all, whether static or outdoors, the feeling of riding tandem together with Burns was... the privilege of feeling those feet pressing lightly against his back was...

 

Allowing Burns a moment to get settled against him, Smithers slipped his feet into the pedal harnesses.

 

“What sort of terrain are we tackling today, sir?”

 

“Mmm! Hilly, I think. Why, just the other day I was reminiscing about trapping bears in the foothills of the Smokies. It's been a while since I saw such satisfying moderately intense inclines..”

 

Waylon winced. “Uh, are you sure? I'm sure I heard you reminiscing about, um... shooting bison on the salt flats which were, uh, satisfyingly _flat_. Wouldn't you rather take a trip down memory lane along some lovely , relaxing, _flat_ roads?”

 

“ _Hills_ , Smithers.”

 

With a soft groan and a glare from Burns for his troubles, Smithers adjusted the bike's intensity and incline settings before starting to pedal. Hell, he was far from unfit but at this degree incline he could already feel the burn threatening his calves. His legs were going to hate him by the end of the day, he just knew it.

 

oOo

 

After staggering unsteadily into his apartment, Smithers sank tiredly into the soft, worn cushion of the sofa without even stopping to take off his shoes. His poor tired muscles screamed at him; what a week this had been for aches and pains in all-but-forgotten areas of his body! Perhaps, though, whereas last time had been an affirmation he should shy away from Grinder hook-ups, this was a sign that he should get back in to a regular work-out routine...

 

But this, at least, was a good feeling! These aches were, aha, _satisfying burns_. God, he must be tired, if this was the level of pun he had stooped to.

 

He could still feel the phantom touch on his skin where Burns had clapped him weakly on the shoulder and said ' _good job, Smithers!'_ The rare praise still made his heart sing.

 

Absently, he reached with one hand for the television remote. The screen flickered to life, once again showing the dreary, unfunny slog of post-primetime comedy shows that Waylon found himself defaulting to when he was looking for easy mindless entertainment. A pre-commercial break jingle played, and he instantly flicked the sound to mute; the program he had had the misfortune to catch was another of those trendy new dating game shows. This particular gaudy monstrosity was called, unless he was grossly mistaken, Queen of Hearts. Though Waylon wasn't entirely certain of the premise, it seemed that a host of colourful, flamboyantly gay contestants were trying to hook up with, or win the heart of, the Queen of Hearts. It almost made his lame puns look sophisticated.

 

In truth, it was harmless fun, though more than a little scripted and with overly-dramatic editing. Still, for someone who regularly repressed his sexual identity to the extent that Waylon did, watching a group of men who were happily out revel in their own existences and openly flirt with each other was always... vaguely unsettling. Was this _jealousy?_ He turned the set off again almost immediately. It was just his normal inconvenient luck that his search for light background noise led to another minor existential crisis.

 

… According to the wall clock, it was only nine thirty. With a soft groan, Smithers pushed himself up. There was a light nagging in his stomach which hinted that he was starting to get hungry, and if he ate something now instead of waiting until he was more than a little peckish then he'd probably be ready to go to bed at a reasonable time tonight. Heh, time to open up the cupboards and see how many varieties of soup he'd managed to hoard...

 

A brief scan revealed his usual collection of mushroom soup, chicken soup, tomato soup, assorted cup ramen (for hungry days) and, hidden right at the back behind an old packet of conchiglietti pasta, a single can of beef consommé. Huh. He didn't even remember buying beef consommé, but...

 

A quick glance in the fridge and a rummage in his other cupboards yielded the pasta, half an onion, a sorry-looking carrot, two leeks, a Tupperware of leftover chicken from the last time he had boiled up a breast to feed the dogs, and a bag of dried porcini mushrooms he'd once tried to incorporate into Burns' meals. It hadn't gone well. _'What the devil is this?'_ Burns had asked in disgust after spitting out a half-chewed mushroom, _'Smithers, if I'd wanted my meal to smell and taste of soil I would have eaten it off my gardener!'_

 

Smithers had been left with a stung ego and an open bag of gourmet mushrooms that seemed too expensive to waste.

 

Usually, Waylon didn't add too much to his soups. It wasn't that he disliked the idea of something to liven up his boring home cooking, but more often than not, he was too tired when he came home to do much more than shove a bowl in the microwave. Today, though... well, it was still early, and though he was worn out he was not exhausted. After a week like this, he deserved a little treat... didn't he? Besides, consommé was too thin to eat on its own, and now was as good a time as any to prep something to go with it.

 

After cracking open a cold beer (Duff Lite, of course) and taking a swig, Smithers started chopping the half onion. Years of cooking for Burns had at least taught him how to dice onions without crying – much – and his eyes barely stung as he scraped the onion into a pan ready to sauté. His movements as he manipulated the knife and turned up the stove flame were bouncy, almost jaunty; for the first time in what felt like weeks, he had energy! Yes, it was true that Burns had worked him hard this week and really put him through his paces in the gym, and he had been sore all day after that mountainous bike ride, but goodness if he didn't feel better for it.

 

A merry bubbling from the second saucepan on the hob told him that the consommé was approaching its boil. He turned the heat down to a rolling simmer and tipped in the chopped vegetables, chicken, caramelised onion and dried mushrooms. Hell, it already smelled amazing. Almost as an afterthought, he threw in a handful of the small shell pasta and put the lid over the pan. He'd leave that to stew, maybe for ten minutes or so, just enough time for the pasta to cook and the flavours to all really melt together...

 

Timer set, Waylon hauled himself back into the small spare room he used both as an office and Stacy display room (though in reality, every room was a Stacy display room, even the bathroom.) With some time to spare before he ate, he may as well check his emails.

 

His old computer rattled to life with a raspy chuntering noise and slowly loaded up his personal inbox. There were several new items, but, as usual, it was mostly just junk or invoice receipts for any variety of things he had paid for on Burns' behalf. One or two emails were almost interesting – one was a newsletter from one of the Stacy fansites he frequented, the other was a personal email from a fellow collector from whom he often bought odds and ends – but, this time, neither had anything that wasn't already in his collection at least once. A little disappointed, he deleted the newsletter and typed out a quick reply to the second mail.

 

At last, the smell of simmering soup and the sound of his timer alarm told him that his food was ready. It wasn't a moment too soon; while he had only been slightly hungry earlier, now he was thoroughly ravenous. Rising stiffly from his computer chair, he hobbled back into the kitchen.

 

Though it didn't take long to dish up his creation into a bowl, by the time he was sitting at the counter with his beer ready to eat it, he was salivating enough to end a drought in a desert. When was the last time he had made something, for himself rather than for Burns, that he had so eagerly anticipated eating? It was hardly gourmet, he supposed, but it was a hearty, wholesome, much-needed conclusion to a truly trying week.

 

For once, his home-cooked evening meal tasted every bit as good as he had anticipated, and his expectations from the smell alone had been so high he was quite proud it had lived up to them. Sated and aching only half as much as he had been when he got home, Waylon sat back and let himself relax for a moment.

 

Perhaps the only problem with cooking for himself like this was the amount of dirty dishes to clean. A can of mushroom soup, heated in the microwave, left him with one dirty bowl and one dirty spoon. Today's culinary adventure had resulted in several dirty knives, the two saucepans he had used, and his spoon and bowl. He sighed. He could put it off, he supposed... but that would only lead to a smelly sink and tomorrow's regrets.

 

Grumbling again, Smithers reluctantly pushed himself up and filled the sink with soapy water before plunging his hands in and busying himself scouring the sauté pan. Already his shoulders were tightening up again, and by the time he had finished even the small amount of cleaning, the warm afterglow from his delicious meal was even now starting to fade.

 

With a relieved if long-suffering moan, Waylon finally sank back down into the comfort of his computer chair and flicked the mouse. The monitor whirred back in to life, waking up slowly and laboriously from its screensaver as though dragging itself back from the dead. Waylon felt a brief flash of sympathy for it, before scolding himself on the ridiculousness of seeing a ‘tired’ computer as a kindred spirit.

 

The beer bottle was deposited on an old CD he used as a drinks coaster as, absently, he clicked through onto his internet browser. It was the end of the month and (in theory, at least) he had received his monthly salary two days ago. Smithers had fallen out of the habit of checking his bank account every month to make sure it had been paid in; perversely, he trusted the miserly Burns to at least pay him on time, if only because Burns took great pleasure in informing people when they had displeased him enough for him to withhold or dock their money.

 

Perhaps it was time to treat himself? After that thoroughly satisfying meal, he was feeling a real rush of self-indulgence, and he justified it by telling himself that, after all, he’d had such a bad week. Though, on the other hand, it was probably irresponsible to go on a shopping binge just to make himself feel better…

 

“Oh, heck,” Waylon mumbled out loud as he loaded up his eBuy homepage. Of course it was going to end up like this; it always did when he tried to talk himself out of browsing through the new Stacy listings. Besides, he tried reasoning weakly, it wasn’t as though he was planning on _buying_ anything, he was just _looking…_

 

For fifteen minutes or so, Smithers browsed through the Stacy listings without much enthusiasm, the dull monotony broken only on the occasions when, every now and then, he remembered to sip at his beer. Most of the dolls up on eBuy were either junkers, ruined to such an extent they weren’t good for much except replacement parts, or vastly overpriced by greedy parents hoping to cash in on the hundreds of barely-played-with toys their darling Rebecca had outgrown.

 

… this was pointless. There was nothing piquing his interest; he already had all of these (multiples of some!), and there wasn’t even anything listed for a price low enough for him to buy it and flip it at a decent profit…

 

Swigging his drink and lamenting the life of an adult collector, Waylon made to close the webpage.

 

His hand froze as he saw it and he almost choked on his beer. Hell, how had he missed this? He’d scrolled straight past it once, only registering the high price ($280, high for even the rarer Stacys in this predominantly young market) and the misspelled title offering a ‘Chinesse (?) exclusive malibu Staccey’. Spluttering his way through the drink now fizzing at the back of his throat, he clicked on to the listing, barely daring to hope.

 

Yet when the full listing loaded, there it was. The photograph showed him everything he needed to see; somehow, by some blessed chance, he had stumbled across at a picture of one of the very few officially endorsed non-knockoff non-American Stacys in existence. From the chrome detailing on this doll’s accessories and the tiny gold ring adorning one tiny thumb, shown in beautiful clarity in one of the photographss, he knew immediately was looking at a Japanese Lucky Draw Gyaru Stacy, one of a run of exactly ten dolls released in that brief seven month window during the late ‘80s when toy distributor Bondai held the license. Amazing, absolutely amazing… Waylon had hit the holy grail combination of a truly rare item which he did not already own, a ‘Buy It Now’ option so he didn’t have to worry about other bidders, and a clueless seller with no idea about their listing’s real value.

 

Who cared if he'd been paid on time this month? He'd happily go in to debt for this!

 

Heart in his throat, Waylon barely breathed as he clicked the 'Buy' button and re-entered his PayFriend password. The tension was palpable, and he half expected it to have disappeared from the site before his struggling internet finished processing the invoice request, but... with blessed certainty, his browser displayed the pay receipt. Smithers twitched in relief, the tension melting out of his body like a deflating balloon. It was his! After almost thirty damn years, as soon as the postal service bothered to show up at his door, Gyaru Stacy was _his!_

 

Stretching leisurely as the confirmation email pinged through and taking another triumphant swig of his drink, Waylon tilted his head back and, overcome in the moment, laughed uproariously to the ceiling.

 

oOo

 

Several days passed before the reply came. Smithers had handed it to him with the rest of the post; the plain white envelope had been easily distinguishable by its meticulous yet shaky handwritten address. Burns held it delicately between his long fingers, as gingerly as though he were holding a soiled rag.

 

He'd fought with himself over sending the damn letter after Smithers had finally finished scribbling down what had turned out to be some utterly uninspired passionless drivel, but his entire ruse would have been in danger if, after all that fuss, he'd done nothing more than hide it away in his desk drawer. It wasn't as though Burns was worried that his prying might be uncovered – his nosiness was hardly a secret – but there was no point in needlessly jeopardising Smithers' efficacy.

 

Sitting at his desk and leaning back in the tall chair, Burns carefully slit open the envelope with his letter-opener and drew out the paper within. The musty smell of boiled cabbage and assisted living filled his nostrils almost immediately and he drew back, wrinkling his nose. Once again, he was silently and very privately thankful for Smithers who, for all his faults, at least tended to care for his personal hygiene and always seemed to have a nice, comforting smell.

 

Hands steady, Burns cast the envelope aside into the wastepaper basket and unfolded the letter. It, too, bore the same smell of old woman, tempered a little with some cheap attempt at eau-de-parfum. His nose wrinkled even further. If Bouvier had been foresighted enough to take him up on his magnanimous offer of marriage instead of publicly humiliating him, her reliance on discount off-brand clothing and cosmetics would have been the first thing he'd have changed.

 

With the barest twinge of a bad mood tugging itself behind those thoughts, he turned his attention to the spidery fountain-pen writing, replete with slight blotting next to most of the punctuation.

 

 

'Dearest Monty,

I was very astonished to see your letter, and even more astonished that this time you did not threaten to have me suspended limb by limb from your north cooling tower. Thank you for your last gift of lilies, they looked beautiful on the mantelpiece. You probably noticed they were infested with termites and will take great pleasure in knowing we needed to fumigate my floor and the floor below.

I appreciate your offer but i have no wish to resume our courtship. Hopefully this does not come as a surprise to you. If it does, I hope you are not offended if i suggest going for a scan. I know a good clinic that specialises in age-related maladies, I have written the address on the back of this letter.

Hope your artificial hip isn’t acting up any more.

As always, please never contact me again.

Forever Yours,

Jacqueline Bouvier'

 

… How infuriating.

 

Burns scrunched the letter up and threw it at the waste basket. It landed next to his foot, so he settled instead for kicking it irritably. Even if he hadn't been sincere in his own letter, the gall of the woman! To not only reject him (again!) but to criticise his choice of gift? Yes, perhaps he _had_ sent it with the malicious intent of having her evicted from her home, but that was beside the point! A well-bred woman should know better than to complain about any gift given so graciously.

 

Distracted, he stood and paced towards the large window at the back of his office, surveying the twin bulks of the cooling towers rising imposingly out of the ground. His scheme had backfired quite decisively. What did he have to show for it? All he had achieved was to dig open old grievances, and Smithers' motivations remained as opaque and enigmatic as ever.

 

Monty Burns was not a man who wore failure well, and this inconclusive result wore gratingly at his patience. Was there any way left to affirm or deny his suspicions? Or would he have to face the next few weeks faced with the knowledge his curiosity would never be sated – at least, it would nag at him until he moved on to the next fascination and forgot why he had ever cared?

 

Grumbling quietly to himself, Burns turned back to his desk and saw a fresh cup of steaming hot coffee had miraculously appeared while his back was turned. Good grief! Smithers sometimes moved like a damn ghost! It was no good for his poor heart, to have his employees creeping around like a disease, but... as he sat back down and wrapped his hands around the cup, he mused that it was just what he had needed.

 

Perhaps he should just attach some bells to the man, so he could be alerted to his presence without impeding this ever-vigilant assistant who sometimes seemed to know Burns' wants before he even wanted them.

 

Burns fancied himself an independent soul, particularly for his age (a number by which he was frequently both impressed and bothered; how long would he be able to continue successfully cheating the final arbiter?) but really, what would he be without Smithers' and his almost fanatical level of obsessive devotion? It was remarkable that loyalty like Smithers' existed in this day and age, especially considering that Burns hardly paid Smithers a competitive salary for his qualifications.

 

Blowing the steam from his coffee, Burns took a long sip. Ah~ milky, with four spoons of sugar and almost no coffee. Just how he liked it!

 

Once again, his nitpicky demands had been met by a fastidious perfectionism. Yet the man never breathed so much as a word of complaint!

 

Taking another sip of his sweet caffeine milk, Burns chuckled lightheartedly into the mug, struck by a sudden amusing thought.

 

Cussadang, with this level of selfless, unwavering attentiveness, it would hardly be amiss to joke that Smithers was in love with –

 

…

 

Wait...

 

Burns forced out another stilted laugh before the sound died in his throat. What a ludicrous thought, Monty! Smithers is in love with...

 

But the doubt gnawed at him. He glanced back at the balled-up letter from Mrs. Bouvier. His attempt to force Smithers to reveal his inappropriate feelings for the old witch had been inconclusive, though, so why – why had he thought there was anything there in the first place?

 

Casting his mind back, Burns tried to recover the reason he had fixated on the idea of Smithers and Mrs. Bouvier (beyond, of course, his own tendency to immediately assume the worst in any situation potentially involving his being betrayed by someone he at least somewhat trusted.)

 

Wasn't it his _own_ feelings for Bouvier at the start?

 

Yes, it had all started with that dratted infatuation he'd had with the old crone, hadn't it? And Smithers had made his displeasure as clear as he could without outright stating that he was upset. Burns, prone to jealousy himself, knew he recognised the signs in the petulant, petty way Smithers had been acting, but...

 

Perhaps his assumption that Smithers had been jealous of him was mistaken? There was a queer sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach as the jocular nature of his earlier surmising fell away. The more he tried to disprove it with his thoughts, the more it seemed as though he had, this time, stumbled upon the truth.

 

Desperate now to laugh the whole thing off, he cast his mind back again. It felt like there was something nagging at the very edge of his memory. Burns thought back to the Bouvier affair, frowning worriedly. He'd danced with her, that's right, and she had decisively refuted his advances... the next day. Smithers had shown less than his usual vigour, but Burns had not paid him much mind through his own euphoric haze (what a mistake _that_ had been, hindsight gloated.) He'd dismissed most of the workers early, and... and he'd settled down to write a letter.

 

He'd struggled with it. He remembered that much; writing sweet nothings was not, after all, his forte. He'd given up and asked for help.

 

He'd asked _Smithers_ for help. Just like in his damn experiment the other day, he'd asked Smithers to write him a love letter.

 

And Smithers had instantly, if somewhat reluctantly, come out with some beautiful piece of poetic sap which couldn't have been interpreted in any way but an expression of passionate, aching romance. Burns had questioned him about it, if only because it seemed so unlike his normally practical assistant, but he'd been so absorbed with fantasies about giving it to Mrs. Bouvier that he hadn't listened to the answer at all.

 

 _I gave it to you on your birthday_.

 

The words floated into his mind, each one punching harder than the last. Smithers hadn't been jealous of _him,_ but if not of him, then –

 

Oh.

 

_Drat._

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Awright, only eighty-four years til the next chapter! (´・ω・`)


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Am I going for the record on Longest Waits Between Chapters...?  
> Probably (´･ω･`)

Monty Burns was curator of his own private hell.

 

His head was whirling. The conclusion his own wandering mind had arrived at was too ridiculous to be true, but – what, was it more ridiculous than Smithers having a hidden flame burning for Jacqueline Bouvier? He'd been more than willing to believe _that_...

 

Slow down, he told himself. The Bouvier affair proved you could be wrong about Smithers and his secrets; you're probably wrong about this, too.

 

But the level of devotion–

 

Totally normal for any good employee! Particularly an employee who thought himself good enough to be private assistant to Monty Burns! The only reason it stands out, he told himself, is because of the sheer incompetence of all the other dullards who make up the plant's staff. Even the most normal and average of pebbles will shine when compared to sewage.

 

But... the _level_ of devotion, the level of _obsession_...

 

Burns closed his eyes, gripping the rapidly-cooling coffee cup weakly in his trembling hands. It was only natural, he tried to convince himself. He'd been a constant in the boy's life since he was a baby, after all, and Smithers had stumbled through adolescence with no real influence from a father figure (Burns' lips tightened a little at the bitter memory of exactly whose fault _that_ was.) Wasn't it to be expected that Smithers would place him on a pedestal and long for his approval?

 

_Smithers tried to kiss you._

 

His blood ran cold – colder than usual, at least. The warm mug burned against his numb fingers.

 

There was no convenient way to explain away that kiss, was there? There was no way he could say 'that's a normal thing for an employee to do'... was there? Hell, even then, when Smithers had given that fumbling excuse about it being a mark of respect, Burns had had his doubts. At the time he'd put it down to the man's brain being addled by the fear of the impending apocalypse, but... well, looking back, the truth seemed even more outlandish.

 

Then – then perhaps – perhaps Smithers' adoration was born merely from respect? Of course, of course he could have no interest in the _physical_ requirements of love, surely not! Burns stared down into the cloudy surface of his coffee-flavoured milk, watching a stray cinnamon sprinkle swirling around the brim. How would that even work? He struggled with the logistics – past the obligatory fondle in the boarding school bathroom that surely all teenage boys went through, the very idea of how sex between two men was supposed to happen completely baffled him. Surely the parts were incompatible?

 

No, no... there could be no way Smithers was interested in that sort of perversion. His adulation must be of the sort that a lowly peon holds for his god, or a dog for its master.

 

And yet...

 

_Smithers tried to kiss you._

 

Burns swallowed the dryness from his throat. There was no escaping that fact, no forgetting the feeling of hot breath over his lips and the hint of stubble grazing his cheek; no running from the memory of being kissed by another man.

 

Feeling the frown knotting his brows, Burns finally released his mug and steepled his fingers in front of his nose. In all the many years of knowing Smithers, the years spent carefully grooming him into being the perfect subordinate, he'd never had the faintest inkling that the man might be light in the loafers! It was true Smithers had never been much of a gal-sneaker, even before he had been married... but did that really mean he wanted _Burns_ to be his woman?

 

Ha...! Ridiculous! Smithers had never given the slightest inkling that he was a nancy, and –

 

Except his love of musical theatre. Except his puppy-eyed fascination when he stared at Burns, eagerly awaiting the next command. Except his mastery of culinary skills and his willingness to wear a pink apron. Except the collection of dolls he'd done his (unsuccessful) best to hide from Burns. _Except that he kissed you._

 

Clearing his throat, Burns pushed the half-finished coffee a little further along his desk. His lips burned despite the tepid temperature of the drink; like a train making its inevitable way along its tracks, his mind kept sliding back to the memory of a kiss that he had never given enough thought to.

 

His first instinct was an entirely knee-jerk urge towards self-preservation. Fire Smithers, hire a replacement, try to forget the sour taste in his mouth at breaking his promise to old Waylon Sr that he would make at least some effort to provide for the boy.

 

It wouldn't work, he decided in a mixture of disappointment and relief. He'd proved it before; Smithers was almost impossible to satisfyingly replace. No one else knew how to butter the toast just so it became _ever-so-slightly_ soggy so Burns could eat it without scratching his gums; no one else knew the exact temperature Burns liked his evening cocoa. Besides, it would take at least a year to fully explain Smithers' filing system to a newbie, and that was assuming they had more than two brain cells to rub together.

 

Then, how best to solve this inconvenience... ah! Perhaps the issue was merely that Smithers had latched on to him because he was the only constant in his assistant's boring, lonely life. Smithers _lived_ for work, routinely starting early and staying late. He even showed up on weekends sometimes! Burns thought back to the vague memories of his few close camaraderies in the trenches, born out of necessity and a complete lack of female attention than any sort of real friendship. Yes, yes...! Smithers must just be fixating on him because he had no other friends, and he had already proven himself useless at finding a woman who would actually stay with him.

 

Burns looked up from his steepled fingers as his office door opened and Smithers entered quietly, carrying a tray of tea and a soft, overripe banana (Burns' favoured mid-morning snack.) The skeleton of an idea was forming in his mind, and this time his scheme was _bound_ to work... and what a way to kill two birds with one stone! Not only would Smithers stop fixating on him, but hopefully the dispersal of pent-up frustration would improve his recently rocky reliability.

 

“Smithers,” he said as Smithers carefully set the tray on the table in front of him and started peeling the banana, “solve something for me.”

 

“Sir?”

 

“I've been having some rather queer thoughts recently.”

 

Smithers almost dropped the banana A piece of peel, ripped away violently by his bodily flinch, slipped through his shaking hands to land on the edge of Burns' desk. His face went through a palpable journey of expressions before settling on 'closed and wary'.

 

“What... _sort_ of queer, sir?” he asked haltingly. Eyes narrowing in suspicion, Burns offered an impatient grimace.

 

“Queer as in peculiar, Smithers, for goodness sake! Didn't they teach you English at school?”

 

“Oh, it's not that, sir.” Smithers appeared to be battling with himself. As he carefully finished peeling the banana and started to slice it into the bowl on the tray, he opened his mouth as though to offer an explanation but then seemingly changed his mind. “No, no, never mind.”

 

Burns frowned. “Is this another of those cases where you crass youthful louts have taken a perfectly good, solid word and given it one of those _innuendo_ meanings? Because I still maintain that I was not a step out of line telling the chaps at the Turkish bath that I was looking forward to a 'jolly gay time'.”

 

Smithers' gaze, glassy and unseeing, turned upwards and fixed firmly on the ceiling. “Something like that, sir.”

 

“And despite your blustery half-witted attempt at an explanation, I cannot for the life of me ascertain why one of them thought it appropriate to drop his towel!”

 

The strained voice sounded like it was drifting in from another planet. “I couldn't say, sir.”

 

For several awkward seconds which felt as though they dragged in to years, Burns stared at Smithers with his eyes narrowed suspiciously. After shifting uncomfortably beneath the scrutiny, Smithers turned his attention hesitantly back to the banana, now sliced in its bowl. He poured in a small amount of the milk from the jug on the tray and began to smush the soupy mixture together with a fork.

 

Burns looked away from Smithers' unhappy face just in time to check he was adding the correct amount of sugar to the lumpy banana milk, finished with just a pinch of cinnamon.

 

“Ahem,” he adjusted his tie irritably. “As I was saying before you had your little _episode,_ I've been having some rather queer thoughts recently, primarily about you.”

 

It was as though an invisible string had pulled Smithers up by the shoulders. Even his hair seemed to brighten up.

 

“M-me, sir? Really!?”

 

“Don't get your hopes up; it's not that promotion you've been thirsting for.”

 

Smithers sagged. Trying to ignore the disconcerting feeling that he had just kicked a puppy, Burns continued. “Rather, I have noticed an untenable decline in the quality of your brown-nosing and I have run out of patience. Now, cease your prattling,” for Smithers had started to mumble excuses and pleas for leniency, “I'm not in the mood to fire you quite yet.”

 

Burns sat back in his chair comfortably, feeling the anxious gaze of Smithers' wide hazel eyes, so light they were almost grey, and revelling in the familiar rush of power.

 

“Well then, Smithers, I think I already know the reason for your increasing incompetence. Have you had an argument with your wife?”

 

Smithers' cheeks went dark red. “We... divorced a long time ago, sir. I haven't spoken to her for years.”

 

He looked, if possible, even more uncomfortable. Reaching for the delicate china cup of freshly-poured tea, Burns made a soft noise of dismissal. He'd suspected as much from the way Smithers carefully avoided ever talking about his marriage or his home life, but it was a somewhat grim satisfaction to have that confirmed.

 

“Hmph! I thought that might be the case with how you mope, and I suppose recently the lack of that delicate female touch in your life has been getting on top of you.

 

The look of open-mouthed incredulity on Smithers' face was priceless, but Burns did not want to meet his assistant's gaze too much in case his train of thought derailed. Instead, he gently tapped a small fake panel on the underside of his desk, revealing one of the secret drawers he used to keep personal effects hidden from prying eyes.

 

“Here,” he said, pulling out a careless fistful of green bills and riffling through them before wrapping an elastic band loosely round them. “Think of this as a bonus for your previous good service. Go home early tonight and find yourself a good strumpet to relieve this ridiculous frustration, and I expect to see you refreshed and raring to go tomorrow morning.”

 

With both hands, he pushed the money on to the table and nudged it towards Smithers. The man was as unmoving as a statue.

 

Burns snorted. “Oh, stop being such a martyr, Smithers! Consider this a mandatory overtime assignment that may or may not affect your next performance review. Now, then.” He picked up his spoon and prodded the milky banana mush. “After elevenses, I think it will be time for a little light exercise, don't you?”

 

“Um...” Dreamlike, Smithers picked up the bundle of notes with one hand and took the empty milk jug in the other. “Right. Of course.”

 

oOo

 

A crisp slice of toast sat on the abandoned plate, the golden butter melting slowly between the crumbs. Thin strands of steam still rose from it, carrying the appetising smell across the small office, but Waylon was in no state of mind to fully appreciate it. Instead, morning snack quite forgotten despite his having only just made it, he sat at his desk, lost in his own mind. The wad of money Mr. Burns had given him sat opposite. It felt as though it was staring him down. Distracted, he took off his glasses and massaged his forehead with one hand.

 

Why had Mr. Burns, the famous miser, given him money at all, let alone unprompted? It was sufficiently out of character for Smithers to be at least a little concerned over his health, but unlike Burns' infrequent lapses of sanity, at least this time he seemed relatively lucid. It was some small consolation, at least, to have some reassurance that Mr. Burns wasn't properly losing his mind quite yet.

 

But then...

 

Mr. Burns had told him to look at it as a bonus. Why now!? In all the decades he'd worked for Burns, he'd _never_ been given a bonus – furthermore, he'd never asked for one. In Waylon's mind, being not only allowed but _paid_ to come to work and see Monty Burns every day _was_ the bonus.

 

… There must be over a thousand dollars there.

 

Waylon swallowed. A bonus, Burns had said, but... but what bonus came with a caveat like _'find yourself a good strumpet'..._?

 

… A thousand dollars was a lot of money, but to a man as rich as Mr. Burns it was barely even a drop in the ocean of his vast fortune.

 

Why on _earth_ did Mr. Burns think he needed a woman!? Waylon fought down a brief moment of panic. Had he been too obvious in his lust? Well, obviously he was never particularly discrete about his feelings, but Burns was as oblivious as a deaf bat about most social cues these days. But... to recognise his all-consuming sexual frustration yet so superbly fail at identifying the source? God, why did Burns have to be so brilliant and so stupid at the same time!?

 

With a sigh, he slid his glasses back on to his nose. What if he just took the money, used it to pay off his credit card, and simply _told_ Burns he had had a fantastic night and was raring to go? No, it wouldn't work. Even if he was able to say with a straight face that he had slept with someone, let alone a woman, he knew he was never able to lie to Mr. Burns for very long.

 

Burns had said it was mandatory, that it would affect his performance review... was there any point in just approaching an escort and paying them to sit around and do nothing? Or perhaps even to pay a male escort and actually have an enjoyable time out of it... but Waylon knew that, while he could certainly fulfil Burns' demand by either of those methods, neither would cure the frustration that Burns had so eloquently picked up on.

 

No, there was nothing for it. He'd have to return the money, make his excuses, and hope that Burns wasn't too angry about it.

 

As he looked up from the desk, Waylon finally remembered his toast. Ah... it had cooled almost completely, and was soggy to the point of disintegration with the butter he had liberally spread on it, but he picked it up anyway and took an unenthusiastic bite. Burns would be finished with his banana soon, and it was always best to be well-fuelled before heading down to the gym for the day's torture.

 

With perfectly inconvenient timing, the wavering call of _Smiiitheerrs!_ drifted through the open office door. Abandoning his half-eaten toast, Waylon rose to his feet, pausing only to retrieve one of the Crunchy Bunch energy bars he had hidden away in his desk drawer for situations like this. After all, experience told him he would need it for Burns' exercise regimes.

 

oOo

 

At first, Burns hadn't been sure whether he should ask Smithers to help him change for exercise. With his new-found knowledge, how could he _not_ be afraid that the sex-starved maniac might jump him? After thinking it through over his banana, however, he realise that it was hardly an issue now that he had solved that particular problem. Smithers would get his good service reward tonight, and Burns need not worry about anything untoward happening.

 

Besides, how many times had Smithers undressed him before? Burns was not quick to trust; most people who wanted to get close to him had sights on nothing but his money, but Smithers... seemed honest almost to the point of dullness. Burns could never understand such a criminal lack of concrete ambition, but he appreciated the stalwart reliability.

 

Speaking of Smithers...

 

Raising his arms so Smithers could slip his sports jacket over his head, Burns mused that his assistant looked preoccupied. His brows were knotted in troubled distraction. Hmm, perhaps he was embarrassed that Burns had worked out his personal issues?

 

After Smithers had helped him change, Burns sat to the side in his sportswear, watching his assistant strip. It was something he had seen countless times before, of course, but after spending the morning analysing Smithers' motivations and uncharacteristically considering his feelings, he actually _looked_ as the man unbuttoned his shirt and let it slip from his shoulders.

 

Smithers... wasn't in bad physical shape. Yes, there was some muscle definition there, wasn't there? Maybe from the hours of exercise Smithers performed on Burns' behalf. Burns felt an undeserved sense of pride. Monty Burns only wanted the best in life, the most refined belongings, and that requirement stretched to Smithers (who at this point, with the amount of time he spent in Burns' company, may as well be a belonging anyway.) Who knew whether Smithers would have been able to maintain this physique without _his_ guidance?

 

… He'd lost weight. Not hugely, certainly not to the extent that it was anything worth worrying about, but enough to be noticeable in the way his carefully-pressed white shirt hung more loosely from his frame, and how he'd tightened his belt a couple of notches over trousers that clung slightly lower on his hips. Was he eating properly? Burns quickly dismissed the thought from his mind. He knew how Smithers could cook. It was foolish to think that a man who could prepare a confit duck to that high standard wouldn't know how to feed himself. Not that he would ever admit as much to Smithers, of course; it certainly wouldn't do to unnecessarily inflate his ego!

 

Smithers turned to retrieve his jogging top, and Burns found himself staring at his back. How many times had he seen Smithers change in front of him? Yet he'd never cared to really _see_... How foolish – so many missed opportunities to revel in the sight of his possessions.

 

Burns found his eyes drawn to a thin white scar on Smithers' left shoulder blade. He stared at the little blemish, frowning slightly. How dare it mar this otherwise perfect skin? How had it come to be there?

 

“Smithers, what is that?”

 

“What's what, sir?” Smithers, still clearly a little distracted, glanced round at Burns and saw one long finger point. He tried to follow its trajectory, but saw nothing except the blank wall behind him.

 

Burns pressed his finger against the mark, trying to ignore the warmth of Smithers' skin and the vitality that pulsed beneath. “That.”

 

“Something on my back?”

 

“Yes. What is it?”

 

“Um. You – you have to tell me what it looks like, sir. I can't actually see it.”

 

“Tch. It _looks_ like an old cut of some sort, about, oh, this long.” Two bony fingers were outstretched in a rough approximation, a little more than an inch apart. “On your shoulder.”

 

Smithers' expression dropped and his tone became stilted and clipped. “Oh.” He seemed to be trying to find the words. “My, uh, my stepfather was... he was a harsh man.”

 

“Tsk. He beat you?”

 

“Sometimes. Not often.”

 

“With what?”

 

“His belt.”

 

Burns ran his finger along the old wound again, feeling Smithers shudder slightly beneath him. “But this is–”

 

“It had a Harley buckle on it.”

 

“Mmph. That's barbaric. At least when _I_ played the young rip, my grandfather had the decency to use a cane on my whipping boy. The point of corporal punishment is to _punish_ , not to mutilate. Did your mother not intervene?”

 

“She, uh... she didn't really recover well from my father's death and we didn't really – she was in no state to look after a chi – she wasn't very well.” Smithers' voice was oddly stilted, soft and almost at a monotone. “We've only recently reconciled, but I – I'm not sure she realises who I am. She's eighty already, and she gets pretty confused. I don't think I'm the Waylon she's talking to. She probably thinks I'm my dad.”

 

“You do bear an uncanny resemblance to him.”

 

“So I've been told.”

 

“Oh!” Burns winked at Smithers and gave him a raunchy smile. “Speaking of your mother, how is she these days? Still single?”

 

Smithers' lips pursed unhappily.

 

“She wouldn't be your type, sir.”

 

“Mm? Why not?”

 

“She, uh... she looks a lot like me.”

 

Burns surveyed Smithers' broad shoulders and the masculine jut of his jawline.

 

“Oh,” he said without thinking, “that poor woman.”

 

Instantly, Smithers went a deep, deep red. His gaze dropped to the floor and his shoulders shuddered, very briefly. For a moment, he almost seemed on the verge of an emotional outburst. If Burns had been a more empathetic man, he may have pulled away and left well alone, but his curiosity was piqued and the true implication of his words that had Smithers so ruffled was completely lost on him. “What was this one for?”

 

“It – I –” swallowing hard, Smithers turned to face Burns, who was taken aback at how poked up he was over what, in his mind, was a harmless question. “Does it matter? I'd rather not talk about it.”

 

“Would I have asked otherwise?” Burns folded his arms tetchily. Perhaps it was unfair to use this tone with Smithers, who was clearly reluctant to divulge what really was none of Burns' business, but no sane person would ever have described Burns as 'fair'.

 

Smithers muttered something that sounded very much like _'beat the fairy out of Gaylon'_ and turned away. Even though his back was turned, Burns could see the tips of his ears had gone red.

 

“Smithers–“ he started, wanting to tell the man to stop speaking in tongues and tell him in plain English what that meant. Smithers turned his head slightly and the question died in Burns' throat. He'd never seen _that_ expression on Smithers' normally soft features before. Perhaps... perhaps for now, it was best to leave alone.

 

His fingers traced away from Smithers' back and came to rest instead on his bicep, and he was quietly impressed at the firmness. Even in his youth, Burns had been a slender man; he and muscle seemed fated to interact much like oil and water, and he had never quite managed to bulk up. On the other hand, Smithers, though naturally slim, had a little substance to him. Even the recent weight loss that had diminished (though not eradicated) what chubbiness he had around the belly hadn't wasted away the slight definition of his torso, nor the reassuring strength of his arms. Burns again felt that rush of satisfaction. After all, Smithers was not image conscious (at least, Burns hoped he wasn't, with the way the man dressed himself), but he did spend a fair amount of time exercising in one way or another, and Burns took credit for much of that.

 

“Smithers,” he said suddenly, pulling away, “I don't feel like going for that bicycle ride any more.”

 

“Sir? I've just got changed, are you _sure?”_

 

“It's your own fault for telling me something so depressing.”

  
For a brief moment, Smithers stared open-mouthed. “You _asked,_ sir!”

 

“Hmph! That doesn't mean I wanted to _know!”_ Burns pouted, his voice reedy and petulant. “You should have made something up, said you'd got a gammy cut having a lark around or maybe you'd been knocked down by a horse dray while mafficking.”

 

“Sir, I – I don't even know what half of that means!”

 

“Tch– whatever happened to good old Mother English, eh? Nevermind, you addlepated nincompoop, just get me changed back into my suit and take me upstairs. You've completely spoiled the mood.”

 

After the briefest of hesitations, Smithers sighed quietly and pulled his sports hoodie back off. “All right, sir. I'll take you back to your office and you can do something you enjoy. How about counting money and firing an employee for no reason? That always makes you happy.”

 

“Mmph. Very well.”

 

As he was being changed, Burns completely missed Smithers sighing again and shaking his head. The Crunchy Bunch bar in his pocket pressed against his leg, grounding his flyaway thoughts. It was a cruel irony that Burns only seemed observant when it came to things Waylon least wanted him to observe.

 

Oh, and today had started off so promisingly...

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Monty Burnsssss...!!


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A fast update? What devilry is this!?

At first, he'd had thought that Burns was angry with him.

 

It was inescapable fact that Burns was acting rather more prickly than usual. It seemed harder to meet his gaze; his tone was a little more wary and clipped; his shoulders seemed a little tense whenever Smithers touched him, whether it was helping him change or gently massaging moisturiser into his skin.

 

With Mr. Burns' self-absorbed and frequently standoffish personality, the change was so slight that it wasn’t concerning, but in the beginning it was a more than a little hurtful after all the effort Smithers put in to caring for his employer. As the weeks rolled lazily by, however, and spring began to progress in to summer, whatever was bothering Burns appeared to be evaporating away with the increasingly warm weather.

 

Waylon was, for the most part, happy. The good weather definitely helped, as did the steady return to normality both in his private life and in Burns’ treatment of him. Gyaru Stacey had arrived just over a week after he won her, and despite his fretting that the purchase was too good to be true and he had been scammed into buying a knock-off, it turned out to be the real deal; it arrived in the original box (though it had clearly been taken out and played with by at least one child) and, to a true collector, was easily worth several thousand dollars. How much had he paid for it? With shipping factored in, it still hadn’t been more than three hundred dollars. Hell, in the wake of that amazing feeling of success, even the incident with hardp0und had filtered itself out of his mind, buried by the piling sands of time.

 

The boxed Gyaru Stacey had taken pride of place on his display shelves. The day she arrived, Waylon had gone out to the shops and treated himself to a small bottle of champagne. Partway through driving home with his bottle wrapped up on the passenger seat, he had a sudden flash of inspiration and decided to _really_ pamper himself for once. There was a lovely restaurant on Springfield’s south side which was known for its fish dishes. He had often driven past it and told himself he had to try it one day, but several years had passed and he had never once gone in, not even with Mr. Burns – Smithers didn’t often like letting Burns eat fish; he was always worried that a stray fish bone might lodge itself in his throat and Burns wouldn’t have the strength to dislodge it.

 

That evening had been wonderful. After a meal of pan-seared salmon basted in a ginger and pineapple reduction and a side of the most glorious honey-glazed carrots he had ever tasted, he returned to his apartment sated and with a bottle of champagne as a digestif. Basking in what could only be described as a satisfied afterglow straight through to the next day, even Burns had noticed his vastly improved mood and congratulated him on ‘last night’s conquest.’ Waylon didn’t have the heart to correct him, not when he noticed how Burns seemed so much more at ease compared to how tense he had been recently.

 

The money that Mr. Burns had given him to seek the services of an escort still sat in his desk drawer, unused and unforgotten. He hadn’t yet found the courage to return it, not when Burns’ mood seemed to be improving by leaps and bounds. Mentioning that he had disobeyed Burns’ demand would surely only raise his oft-unpredictable anger, and with things going as well as they had been, Waylon was in no mind to risk jeopardising it. Still, the lump of cash crept its way back into his mind every now and then, a persistent ground to reality.

 

Added to that, lingering at the back of his mind was the memory of Burns questioning him about his shoulder...

 

The scar was small. That, at least, was something to be thankful for; it was easily hidden and hard to notice. Heh... Mr. Burns must have been paying quite the intense amount of attention to him, if he'd seen it in the poor artificial light of the changing room...

 

For the most part, that particular beating had slipped Waylon's mind completely – there had been others, of course; he could never be half the man his stepfather had hoped he would be, and as he progressed through his teens and continued not growing out of 'that phase'... well, he'd just been disappointment after disappointment, hadn't he? But it had been a long time since he had thought back to those less-than-stellar days, and, even though it was nice that Mr. Burns was finally showing something of an interest in his private life, his prodding at old wounds had unearthed feelings of bitterness and spite that Waylon really would rather have stayed buried.

 

Now, though, on this mild Friday evening, with the office closed up for the day and Burns safely in his mansion, Smithers had other, much more enjoyable things on his mind.

 

The stand-alone copper bath-tub with its old-fashioned clawed feet and deep basin was already half full. Rolling his shirtsleeves up, Waylon carefully dipped an elbow in to check the temperature and adjusted the faucets accordingly. The rush of hotter water drew flickering patterns of steam on his glasses.

 

Smithers enjoyed pouring baths for Burns. Aside from the obvious promise of approaching nudity and the anticipation of running the soapy loofah over bony shoulders, the sound of running water was always relaxing and there was something exhilarating about being able to mix it up with scented oils or foamy bubble bath like some kind of hygiene alchemist.  

 

What should he add in today? As his glasses demisted, he glanced towards the many bottles adorning the shelves in the large bathroom. Ah, yes – a shea butter and ginger bath crème to help soothe and relax Burns’ tired muscles, the trusty clary sage bubble bath to get a good foam, with a mere dash of eucalyptus aromatherapy oil to scent.

 

For as long as Smithers could remember preparing them, Mr. Burns had always liked his baths to have a lot of bubbles, to the extent that they were sometimes more bubble than bath. Though he was unable to remember quite why he started doing so, somewhere along the way Smithers had shaped the fresh foam into some sort of animal (memory told him it was a Republican Party elephant with a dollar sign on its back) and Burns had been absolutely beside himself. In fact, Mr. Burns was so taken with the idea of a new mystery creation in his bath that he had demanded Smithers do it every time since.

 

Waylon didn’t mind. It wasn’t much effort to make a vague attempt at a shape, and on the odd occasion he was in a particularly good mood Burns would even try and guess what he had made before he came in to see.

 

Stopping the water flow now that the bath was full, Waylon dipped his hands in and started shaping his newest bubble sculpture. What should it be today? Last time, using the streaks of coloured water from a luxurious bath bomb, he had fashioned a butterfly that had impressed Mr. Burns so much he had received an honest, sincere compliment on it. Trying to outdo himself was foolish after _that_ achievement, but he knew he should always put in his best.

 

Ah! Why not a rearing horse? Yes, that would be fitting – one of the reasons Burns had been so jovial this week was because one of the racehorses he owned (what was it with rich people and owning racehorses?) had taken first place in the Epsom Derby overseas, netting just over a million dollars for Burns’ estate.

 

With the barest bit of difficulty, Waylon shaped the pile of bubbles into something that vaguely resembled a rearing horse, using a handful of the tinier, milkier bubbles mixed with water to add some sort of texture to the mane and tail. Leaning back a moment to admire his creation, he dropped an unceremonious blob on the horse’s back to act as a ‘jockey’.

 

“Smithers!” called the impatient voice through the closed door. What perfect timing! “Is that ready yet?”

 

“Yes sir!” Smithers called back rising to check that the fluffy towels on the heated towel rack were warming up nicely for when the bath was over.

 

The bathroom door opened, revealing Mr. Burns in his dressing gown. A long-handled wooden scrub brush dangled from one hand. Instantly, Smithers started over to help him, but Burns waved him back.

 

“No no, cease your mollycoddling. I’m quite capable of walking into my own bathroom without your measly assistance, Smithers.”

 

“Uh… right.” Smithers drew back a little, allowing Burns some space to approach the bath. God, the way Burns slowly slid out of his dressing gown was… almost sensual, the way he briefly let it hang from crooked elbows almost coquettish... He had to know what he was doing! Surely there was no way Burns could have made it through over a century of life without realising what ‘flirting’ and ‘seduction’ were… was he intentionally doing this, or could he really be this naïve? Waylon swallowed the lump down from his throat as Burns’ dressing gown dropped to the floor.

 

Because of the tub’s high sides, Smithers had procured a small portable step-stool for Burns to use to help him climb over in to the water. As Burns planted one foot shakily on to the first step, Waylon held out his arm for Burns to use as a crutch, relieved when he felt a thin hand close weakly around his wrist. Sometimes the normally needy Burns showed fierce displays of independence and insisted on getting in without help. Each time, Smithers had terrible visions of Burns slipping and falling and cracking his head on the tiled floor and bleeding out and gasping out a death rattle and –

 

A soft gasp escaped Burns as he touched the surface of the water with his foot, the heat against his aged skin momentarily robbing him of breath. Waylon smiled, holding Burns up as he manoeuvred himself slowly in. He loved hearing tiny hints that Burns was losing control and sometimes wished it could be _him_ that took Burns’ breath away…

 

Burns slithered in to the bath so slowly and lithely that he barely left a ripple in the scented water. Sinking right up to his nose and peering up at Smithers as his body acclimated to the heat, he stretched to straighten out his poor hunched spine and ease some of the long-suffering muscles on his back.

 

Emerging from the water far enough to speak, he gestured with one hand towards the bubble mound. “What is it today, Smithers?”

 

“It’s Comte de Maraschino, sir. Your winning horse from the Epsom.”

 

“Ah!” An expression of delight dawned on Burns’ wrinkled features. “Yes! So it is. Excellent, Smithers, what an apt reminder of my glorious success.”

 

Allowing himself a small, proud smile at the compliment, Smithers covered a loofah in moisturising soap (specially made for babies with sensitive skin) and dipped it in the water before beginning to run it very carefully over his employer’s shoulders and neck. Burns turned to give him easier access, resting his arms on the edge of the bath letting his head dip on to them.

 

“Mm? Ah – careful there, Smithers – and what is this pungent yet aromatic fragrance?”

 

Smithers was already sweating from the heat of the steamy room, and his glasses slipped a little further down his nose. “Uhm, that would be the eucalyptus and peppermint oil blend I put in the water, sir. Is it all right? It’s supposed to soothe sore muscles and help boost immunity.”

 

A long, contented sigh escaped Burns. “Oh? Yes, that – good. Yes. I believe I can feel my back unknotting already. Well done, Smithers.”

 

“Th-thank you, sir,” mumbled Waylon, blushing with faint pride.

 

The loofah dipped a little lower, spreading warm water and cleansing soap further over Mr. Burns’ back. Beneath Smithers’ large hands, Burns wriggled and stretched like a cat, occasionally emitting a soft grunt when Smithers pressed slightly too hard on a knotted muscle. When the sponge ventured too far towards Burns' side, however, just below his armpit, he let out a choked noise and squirmed away.

 

“Oh! Desist, Smithers, immediately!”

 

“Of course, sir, sorry.” Waylon pulled back, well aware of how ticklish Mr. Burns was.

 

“Pah... never mind, just get on with it.”

 

“Uh... right.”

 

There was a shallow plastic bowl next to the several bottles on the shelf. Waylon picked it up and scooped up a small amount of warm water.

 

“Eyes closed, sir. And tell me if the water's not the right temperature.”

 

Checking Mr. Burns' eyes were closed, Waylon poured the bowlful over his head. The man spluttered.

 

“Pft – pfft – mind my mouth, Smithers, you boisterous lout.”

 

Scooping up another bowlful and pouring it over Burns' receding hair, Smithers chuckled. Burns was always petulant about having his hair washed, but unless he was already in a bad mood there was rarely any venom in it. “Haha. Sorry, sir.”

 

The second bowl wetted the thin grey hair. Waylon reached for the shampoo but paused. No, why shouldn't he indulge himself _just a little bit_...

 

Slowly he threaded the fingers of both hands into Mr. Burns hair and, pressing very gently in little circular motions, began to massage his scalp. An involuntary noise escaped Burns; it was somewhere between surprise and pleasure, and Waylon couldn't keep the smile from his face upon hearing it.

 

For several minutes, he lost himself, first in softly kneading his fingertips around Burns' head, then in running them through the fine hair. … Goodness, Mr. Burns had such lovely, silky hair. Waylon was more than a little envious; he'd never been able to do that much with his own. 

 

Finally, he tore himself away enough to lather the shampoo – hypoallergenic child-friendly 'No Tears', of course - thoroughly through the silver strands. 

 

“Do you want a second wash today too, sir?” he asked as he started the rinse. “Or shall I just go straight to conditioner?”

 

“Mm – pfft – I think – pfft – today I only need one – pfft – wash, Smithers.”

 

“All right, just the conditioner then.”

 

“Yes – pfft – at least you'll stop – pfft – trying to drown me in my – pfft – own bath.”

 

Chuckling again as Burns spluttered through the soapy water, Waylon poured another shallow bowlful over the withered head and once more began to tease conditioning serum (a luxury brand, of course, enriched with cotton proteins and royal jelly) through the thin, wispy hair. Even without the added complexity of a rapidly receding hairline, Burns' hair was so thin, so fragile, he needed the speciality strengthening conditioner just to keep it from snapping, even at the length it was. Smithers had heard from Burns' own stories that, as a young man, his hair – then a strawberry blonde instead of its current steel grey – had flown long and free. Seeing what it had been reduced to... it was a shame. Yes, Burns was still handsome without Adonis-like locks, but Smithers found himself wishing he could have seen the man in his prime, if just the once. 

 

“Eh? What was that, Smithers?”

 

… Oops. He must have let out a wistful sigh, longing for Burns like this. Not the time, Waylon. What are you going to do if you put yourself in a compromising position while he's naked in the bath!? “Oh, uh... nothing, sir. Some of the suds floated up to my face. I was just blowing them away.”

 

As he waited for the conditioner to thoroughly absorb, Waylon rose to his feet and filled the large washbasin with clean, warm water to give Burns' hair a final rinse. 

 

“Mmph. Smithers, while you're over there, pass me that pumice.”

 

Glancing up, Smithers saw the small grey stone. It weighed barely anything in his hand, and he knew if he dropped it in the water it would be light enough to float, but Burns' arm lowered and the muscles in his shoulder visibly strained as he took it from his assistant.

 

“Would–“ Waylon cleared his throat and tried again. “Would you like me to do that, sir?”

 

Burns grimaced, starting to weakly rub the stone against his body. “Absolutely not, you'd slough my skin right off down to the bone! I can't be letting your bawdy roughness loose on anything heavier than a sponge!”

 

“Ah... right.”

 

As Smithers turned, a little dejected, back to the basin, Burns let out the smallest breath and lowered his own eyes to the bathwater, still cloudy with bubbles. In truth, he rather enjoyed it when Smithers exfoliated him; doing it himself, his own arms always tired out too quickly, and Smithers had the most perfect gentle touch, but... well, for some reason restless butterflies rose up in his stomach at the very thought of Smithers touching his chest and belly. Perhaps it was lingering nervousness...?

 

“Eyes, sir,” came Smithers' kind voice. Burns closed his eyes again, and the warm water from the basin poured over his head. Once again, he felt those fingers – thick but agile – thread through his hair and clean the conditioner away.

 

… How could he have considered firing Smithers all those weeks ago? Where on earth would he ever find another assistant who was anal enough to alphabetise his receipts yet tender enough to bathe him with such reverence? Flimshaw! He'd be hard-pressed to find a reliable candidate to act as not only as his secretary but also his butler _and_ his chauffeur _and_ his orderly – and without even demanding a market-rate compensation for even one of those jobs! No, with Smithers he really had struck gold, ah, and his assistant wasn't bad to look at either– 

 

“Sir!” 

 

Smithers' voice pierced his internal monologue, making him jump in fright. His meagre frame splashed back in to the bathwater, spraying Smithers' shirt with large droplets. 

 

“Wha– tch– for God's sake, Smithers!” he spluttered as his assistant took off his wet glasses, “what have I told you about sneaking up on me like that!?”

 

“S-sorry, sir.” Waylon pulled a lens cloth from his pocket and wiped his glasses clean before sliding them back on to his nose. “Um... I did ask quieter, sir, but you seemed to be deep in thought...”

 

Burns made a noise of malcontent to hide slight embarrassment at being caught unawares. “Well? What is it?” 

 

“It's about time for you to get out, sir...”

 

“Mmph! I'm well aware of that, Smithers, I don't need you telling me.”

 

In truth, however, Burns was thankful that Smithers had drawn his attention to how cold the bathwater was becoming. He had been so lost in his own thoughts that he hadn't noticed his arms shaking through the scant remnants of the bubbles, nor the occasional shiver in his breath.

 

“Ready, sir?” 

 

Smithers was holding out one hand towards him. In the other he held one of Burns' favoured plush towels – no doubt, if Smithers was as thorough as he usually was, it would be warm and fluffy from the heated rack – neatly folded and ready for Burns to wrap himself in, to fend away the hated cold. 

 

“Very well.” Taking Smithers' proffered hand, Burns pulled himself laboriously upright. Rivulets of water streamed down his torso, sliding little clumps of tiny bubbles distractingly down his legs. Instantly, though the bathroom itself was not cold, the cool air against his wet skin set a chill running through which felt as though it rattled every aching joint. Dropping his assistant's hand, he instead settled for resting his weight on the man's shoulder to save himself from slipping.

 

He did not have to endure the cold long, however; as he leant on Smithers and stepped stiffly out of the tub, he was engulfed by the warmth of the fresh towel. Smithers wrapped it around him tightly, almost tight enough to be called an embrace. Stepping down on to the thick bathmat, Burns raised his hands to take hold of the sides of the towel and was surprised to find Smithers' hands still there; he'd thought, with the towel securely draped over his shoulders, that Smithers would have let it go.

 

Despite his just coming out of a hot bath, his fingers were cold compared to Smithers'. Smithers' hands were... warm. Large compared to his frailty, smooth compared to his wrinkles...

 

Finally, Smithers' hands disappeared. Ah, he must have been making sure that the towel would not slip down.... Burns was thankful for that. Though he did not like to admit it, he had been sensitive to cold since his eighties, but the towel and the bathmat on the tiled floor (with its underfloor heating, of course!) were comfortably soothing for his tired body.

 

Sinking to sit on the mat cross-legged, Burns cocooned himself securely in the towel, smiling to himself as Smithers took a smaller hand-towel and, kneeling behind him, began to lightly rub his hair dry. 

 

Yes... this was good. There was a warm, contented feeling of satisfaction swelling in his belly. He had eaten well tonight – saddle of hare stuffed with pork cassoulet and baked on a bed of pink potatoes and shallot in a white wine reduction, of course prepared entirely by Smithers – and relaxing in his copper tub after his meal had been exactly the relaxation he needed. Not only that, but the vivid image of Smithers with his hand buried to the elbow in the carcass of a hare as he gutted and dressed it would cause Burns amusement for days to come! Who would have known Smithers had a squeamish side? Perhaps Smithers had kept a pet rabbit?

 

Burns was brought slowly back from his musing as he felt the fabric of Smithers' hand-towel fall away from his hair. Luckily his hair was so thin it dried quickly these days; Burns always became rapidly bored if the process of drying himself took too long.

 

He turned to look at Smithers, who had risen to his feet and retrieved yet another bottle from the shelf. Burns' expression twisted a little; Smithers' trousers were wet at the knees from where he had knelt in the puddles left on the tiled floor when Burns exited the bath. He looked utterly ridiculous.

 

Ignoring the urge to chuckle (he could do without Smithers pouting at him and spoiling his good mood), Burns nodded towards the bottle his assistant held. “What scent is it today, eh?”

 

Smithers checked the label. “Um... sandalwood and cedarwood, sir. Shall I change it for another?”

 

“Mm. No, sandalwood is fine.” 

 

Nuzzling a little further down into the comfort of the towel, Burns waited for Smithers to kneel behind him again and start coating his hands in the after-bath oil. The scent of sandalwood, earthy and rich yet somehow soft and creamy, was one of his favourites. Although he hardly consciously realised it, let alone would ever admit it to himself, it.... it reminded him of Smithers. It was comforting and stable and safe, earthy and common and soft and smooth all at the same time. 

 

The warmth of Smithers' oil-slicked hands clamped over his shoulders, fingertips massaging the moisturiser in to his skin with gentle circular motions. Burns lowered his towel to give his assistant easier access to his lower back. Before Smithers had had that enlightened idea of using after-bath oil, he would shrivel up like a dying apple not long after bathing, his old pores and wrinkled skin unable to cope with the dryness caused by soap and scrubbing.

 

“Incidentally, Smithers,” he said thoughtfully, his voice thick to the point of slurring with relaxation, “you haven't given me my stock report today.”

 

“Oh!” Smithers' hands briefly paused against Burns' spine. “I had the updated standings just before we closed the office... It's mostly good news though, sir.”

 

“Mm?”

 

“Well... you remember I informed you about that plunge on the Nikkei a couple of months ago?”

 

“... yes, of course,” said Burns, remembering no such thing.

 

Large fingertips brushed each protruding vertebra carefully. Burns shivered. “I, uhm... took advantage of the low shares in the company primarily involved and used some of the plant's speculative budget to buy around twenty percent market share in my name and just over thirty percent market share in yours. So, er... now that the power plant is the majority shareholder, uhm, we've bought them out by proxy... I suppose you can either dissolve the company and bank the finances, or let it run itself as is and see if the market value continues to appreciate...”

 

“What's the value as a whole?” 

 

“Uhm, I think it was around two hundred million yen... I'm not sure what that is at the current exchange rate though, sir. Sorry.”

 

Burns steepled his fingers. God, was there anything more satisfying than Smithers – Smithers! with his morals and his honest-to-a-fault economics – could there  _ever_ be anything more satisfying than Smithers obtaining assets (which, of course, would be added to Burns' vast fortune) by such bold-faced fraud?

 

“Excellent! Excellent indeed!” He turned his head just slightly, seeing the side of Smithers' head from the corner of his eye. “Mmph! I feel like celebrating, Smithers. Find a gourmet for me and hire him for an evening. Friday shall do.”

 

“Of course, sir.” Burns felt a slight puff off cool air against the back of his neck as Smithers sighed softly. “Am I extending the invite to anyone else?” 

 

A noise of surprise escaped Burns. 

 

“Why, Smithers! I rather expected, as the architect of this most recent of my pecuniary windfalls, that the second seat would go to you!”   


 

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains exactly two (2) domestic losers.


End file.
